What Comes Around
by boswifedeb
Summary: A high profile murder of a public figure puts LAPD Chief John Whitaker and Matt Houston in the crosshairs of the investigation. But life, death, and crime go on and while the murderer is being sought, Houston has cases of his own to work. Rated T for violence and language. **Immediately follows "Smokescreen"**
1. Chapter 1

"What Comes Around..."

"_A rumor is about as hard to un-spread as butter."_

_\- Author Unknown_

01

"What?" CNZ reporter Tamara Placer snapped at the caller. It had been a late night and her phone ringing was the last thing she wanted. The voice on the other end of the line was muffled and disguised just like it always was.

"Your favorite investigator has been called in to work a possible arson. It's on the corner of Beverly and Spaulding." The line went dead.

Groaning, she looked at the clock: three. "Damn!" Plucking her cell phone off the charger she punched the number for her latest cameraman on speed dial. "Cesar...I don't care what time it is. We've got a story." After giving the man the information she did a rush job on the hair and makeup, put on a skirt and blouse that showed off her assets the most, and slammed out of the apartment. The traffic headed west wasn't too bad but she snarled at every car on the road anyway.

Double-parking on Beverly Boulevard about three blocks down from where flames were licking at the sky, she waited for the cameraman to get there. A couple of minutes later he stumbled out of an ancient Toyota and pulled out the equipment. She began marching toward the edge of the crime scene tape, brusquely pushing through the little crowd of onlookers who had gathered and went to the area where three local reporters were about to be briefed by a sergeant who was currently in charge of the scene. Starting to pull up the annoying yellow tape, Placer was suddenly halted by an arm that shot out and blocked her path.

"Ma'am, I'll need to see some ID." A fresh-faced young cop with a serious expression had been the one to stop her.

"You've got to be kidding me." Abruptly she shoved his arm back and he responded by stepping in front of her.

"Ma'am, no admittance without proper ID." Patrolman Jared Oliver was fresh from the academy and new to Los Angeles. He had grown up outside of Pocatello, Idaho and was still experiencing a bit of culture shock.

"Don't you know who I am?" Angrily she looked down at her chest and now noticed that she had once again forgotten her press pass. "Everyone knows who I am!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. No ID, no admittance. Chief's orders."

She stamped her foot at him. "Get out of my way! I'll have you in the unemployment line so fast-" An older man that she recognized was standing a slight distance away with a huge smirk on his face. "You - what's your name? Carlisle, right? Tell this boy who I am!"

"Won't make any difference. No press pass, no go. Chief's orders." He quickly turned away, trying his very best not to laugh out loud. Tears sprang to his eyes with the effort and he looked across at the scene and his mirth disappeared. It was a bad one. Two bodies had been pulled out of the carnage and a third victim had crawled out badly burned a short time after Larry had arrived on scene. Radio traffic seemed to indicate that he most likely wouldn't make it.

His attention was drawn to the stairway coming down from the second floor where a tall man in turnout gear was quickly coming down the steps with yet another victim over his shoulder. The man's face was covered by his mask and shrouded by the helmet but Larry would know him anywhere.

Matt Houston hustled over to where EMTs were stationed and gently lay down the woman on the blacktop parking lot, tipping his helmet off and removing the mask that allowed him to breathe inside the hell that was currently being brought under control by a slew of firefighters. Sweat poured off his brow and he gratefully accepted a bottle of water from one of the engineers nearby as the medics began working to resuscitate the woman. Downing the liquid quickly he returned the mask and helmet to their proper positions and trudged back up the stairway and back inside the ruins of what had been a cheap motel.

Larry was glad to see Houston getting back to normal - or as normal as his life ever was. He often wondered how the man did so much. Married life, kids, his businesses with Derwin Dunlap, and helping out a bevy of federal agencies not to mention times like now where he was working for the Fire Marshal - it was unbelievable. Add in the fact that he was a sworn deputy for Harris County in Texas and just recently for Los Angeles County and Carlisle like many others wondered when he found the time to sleep or even to breathe. Somehow, he did and a lot of people were glad to have him around. But not LAPD's chief. Not long ago he had given Houston the boot from his job as an advisor and banned him from the buildings. That's when the ID rule had been kicked into high gear. And now - as far as Carlisle was concerned - it was finally coming in handy. Tamara Placer wasn't going to get the inside scoop on the fire that she was clamoring for, if indeed that was really what she wanted. The senior cop and a lot of others still didn't understand why she had it in for the private investigator. He had questioned Lieutenant Hoyt about it a while back and got the feeling that the detective knew the reason, but wasn't sharing it.

Upstairs in the motel, Matt had another room to work. He had already worked four others. Inside of room 221 he had found yet another point of ignition: a fire had been started on the bed and given the body that was smoldering in the center of the mattress, he had a pretty good idea of why. There was what looked like a bullet hole in the center of the chest of what he thought to be a man. He shook his head and began working the scene quickly, taking pictures with the tiny camera that he and Derwin had designed a couple of years back. The risk of collapse of the old building was something that Chief Mark Weston had warned him about and the very reason why he had gone into the inferno in the first place. A collapse would likely obliterate a lot of evidence.

The fire had started on the bed in the area of the man's chest and another point of ignition was at the foot where it appeared that the sheet had been hanging off. A trailer of some yet undetermined accelerant had led out of the room and to a stack of old newspapers and what appeared to be mail. Unfortunately for the arsonist, the papers hadn't been completely destroyed and the investigator had already taken photos of them, taken samples of the surface of the area, and bagged the evidence. After making a few rough measurements of the room he quickly finished that part of the investigation and began searching for a bullet and anything else that could help him. He could tell from the sounds outside that the fire was now pretty much out and the smoke had decreased significantly. Two firemen popped their heads inside and Houston looked over as one removed his mask. Captain Frank Withers gave him a questioning look.

"You doing okay in here?"

Matt nodded and removed his own. "Yup. But that guy isn't. At least I think it's a guy. Kinda hard to tell at the moment." He nodded in the direction of the bed.

"Jesus." He took a step closer. "Bullet hole?"

"Looks like it." He found a duffle bag in the closet and pulled it out. Going through it would wait until he got back to the lab. A quick look in the bathroom didn't reveal anything else and he turned back to Withers. "Have we got transport for him yet?"

"Yep. That's why I'm here. They wanted to know if you were ready for it. Seems like they didn't want to get their shoes wet or something." He shrugged and grinned.

"Send 'em on up if you don't mind." Matt continued to look around the room, his flashlight cutting through the remaining smoke as he waited for the ME's assistant and the body bag.

LAPD Chief John Whitaker had tossed and turned all night, finally falling asleep around four in the morning only to be awakened by the ringing of the phone next to his head. "Hello?"

A screeching voice came across the line and immediately pulled him from his stupor. "John, just what in the hell kind of game are you trying to play?"

"Huh?"

"I was trying to cover a scene and got turned away. I forgot my pass and when I gave the little twerp my name he ran it and said my credentials are no longer active." Tamara Placer was still fuming. She had been able to see Houston as he exited the scene and spoke with one of the fire chiefs, shook Larry Carlisle's hand and that of at least a dozen other officers before going back to his truck with a load of what she supposed was evidence. Ever since the incident in the elevator at the Central Precinct over six years ago where he had turned her down flat and embarrassed her she had tried every way possible to shame and discredit him. And for a while anyway, some of her tactics had worked. Now it seemed that the private investigator was getting back into the swing of life after his bout of depression a few months earlier. All she needed was to catch him off guard - just some little slip, some mistake - and she would blow his world wide open.

Whitaker on the other end of the call was still trying to make sense of what she had told him. "Your credentials are no longer active? How did that happen?"

"You're the chief - you should know. I want it fixed and it better happen NOW!" She disconnected the call, flipped off another driver as she passed on the way to the studio and continued to fume. Whitaker was inept - she had always known it. But ever since the fiasco a few weeks earlier when her psychic friend Victoria Albescu had been brought in to solve a couple of murders for the department and then been upstaged by none other than Houston, he had seemed to be even more useless. As she slammed on her brakes at a light she decided that he was no longer an asset. But his downfall would be a great project. Smiling evilly, she nodded at the thought. What better time? He was still trying to pull his state senate run back together after the deal with Albescu had blown up in his face and his own officers had given him a vote of no confidence. Rumor had it that the dropping of Houston as an advisor had been the last straw for ninety eight percent of the almost 9,000 men and women of the department.

As stupid as he was, she had managed to lead him around by the nose and gotten access to all kinds of departmental information which she had used to her advantage. _Yes,_ she thought to herself, _John Whitaker is going to be my next big story._


	2. Chapter 2

**02**

"I'll take the breakfast platter with extra jalapenos on the hashbrowns, please. Thanks." Matt handed the menu back to the waitress, stifled a yawn, and took a long sip of coffee.

"So what do you think?" Fire Marshal Don MacLemore looked across the table at the man he now considered one of his top investigators.

"I think it was a hell of a mess." Taking another quick sip he checked the time: just after seven. "I don't know, Don. Whoever did it wasn't very good. They went at it backwards - they should have started it with the pile of papers outside and let the trailer running inside to the bed do the job. It was completely backward. Yeah, they managed to burn the body, but there's plenty left for the ME to work with and really, a bullet hole that big is kinda hard to cover up. It seemed more like another way to stick it to the victim than trying to get rid of anything. I mean think about it: a dead body in a cheap motel, sure the cops are going to come check it out. But starting a fire and other folks getting hurt just drew more attention to the murder. And now there are three more dead. "

"Four. The guy that crawled out didn't make it." Don played with the salt and pepper shakers.

"Four." Matt shook his head. "We see some stupid stuff, but this one really takes the cake. I found some papers in the duffle for Wyatt Somerville. Couldn't find a wallet on the body. Maybe the killer took it."

"So maybe a robbery gone bad and they set the fire?"

"Could be. It doesn't make sense to start the fire in there, then run trailers along the rest of the top floor and then along the ground floor - not to mention setting a fire outside the office. Completely insane." Their platters were put on the table and after dousing the entire thing with a heavy load of hot sauce, Houston dug in.

After a couple of minutes of quiet the Fire Marshal spoke again. "Thanks again for taking the call. We've been busy the last week. Those damn wildfires sure stretched the office thin."

"Not a problem." Matt had planned to leave out that morning for Texas, taking part of the horses down to the ranch outside of Houston. Now the trip was put on hold until he got the case cleared up. "I'm going to try to dig into this Somerville guy when we get done here and then go from there."

They finished up a few minutes later and went their separate ways - MacLemore to his office on North Eastern Avenue and Matt to his office on South Figueroa. He pulled into the garage and punched the button for the elevator, yawning widely as he boarded the car and went up to the penthouse. After punching in the security code and unlocking the doors, he immediately locked them back and went behind the bar for the mandatory pot of coffee. As he waited for it to brew he called the house. Nanny Sheila Wentworth answered and he could hear the three youngest kids in the background.

"Houston residence."

"Mornin', Miss Sheila. Is CJ handy?"

"Uh huh, hang on."

The phone was passed and in just a few seconds a smile went across his face as his wife of six and half years spoke. "Hey, Cowboy."

"How ya doin', Lil Mama?"

"Better now. Hopefully the morning sickness won't stick around much longer." The pair had announced the pregnancy of another set of twins to friends and family over the previous weekend. Everyone had been thrilled, none more so than their daughter Catey Rose. She was actively campaigning for a pair of sisters and had been pestering her mom to make sure that was what they were. Several attempts had been made to inform the precocious little girl that her mom had no control over it, but she refused to believe it. "So how's it going?"

"Looks like our trip is going to be put on hold until I can get this cleared." His voice now took on a deeper, more serious tone. "It was pretty bad. The motel was small - about fifty rooms on two floors. But there are five folks dead this morning because of it."

"I'm sorry. Do you need some help?"

"Not at the moment, but I may later. You just try to relax as much as you can." A smile now went across his face as he thought about the babies.

"Just let me know. I'll tell Ben and Marcy that we're on hold. I don't think they'll mind too much." She had taken the foreman of her horse ranch and his wife sightseeing the day before and they were amazed to see some of the sights around LA and Hollywood, neither having been to California before.

"Okay. I'm going to go grab a shower and change of clothes before I start digging into who I think our unknown victim was. Love you, Babe."

"Love you, too. And let me know if you need me."  
"I always need you." He laughed as he said it but she knew what he meant.

"Same here. 'Bye." She hung up the phone and informed the others gathered around the table that the plans for the day were changed.

Back at the office Matt sipped coffee as he went downstairs to the miniature apartment. Smoke from any fire was smelly: when a body had been burning it was much worse. He opened the small laundry alcove, stripped off the sweaty, stinky clothes that he had worn under his turnout gear, tossed them in and started the machine. Next was a steaming hot shower, a fresh set of black BDU pants and a uniform shirt, then another trip to the coffee pot before he sat down on the couch and hit the switch to roll up BABY. The newest addition of a super-sized monitor lit up and the familiar message appeared: HIYA, BOSS!

"Right back at ya, BABY. We've got some work to do." He began with the name of Wyatt Somerville and entered the driver's license number that he had gotten from the records in the motel's office. Just as a precaution he had taken the information of every guest who had been registered the previous night. LAPD was supposed to contact him to let him know if anyone was missing. He wondered who would land the case and then snickered at the thought of the police department having to contact him even though he was banned from the buildings. _But,_ he thought to himself, _if this case takes me into one of them there's not a damned thing Whitaker can do._

The information on Wyatt Somerville came up on the screen: male white, fifty five years old, with an address at an apartment in the 4500 block of Homer Street in the northeast section of town. His next step was to see if the man had a record and he did. Apparently he liked to drink: there were four DUI convictions, several charges of driving on a revoked license, three arrests for bar fights, and a couple of drunk and disorderlies. He searched for any next of kin to notify and found that Somerville had been divorced for a little over ten years and there apparently had been children. He found the child support order that had ended six years previously. Jotting down the name and address of the ex-wife he figured that would be a place to start, then check out the apartment on Homer, although his intuition told him that Somerville probably hadn't lived there in a while. If he was as bad of a drunk as his record indicated he most likely couldn't hold down a job well enough to pay rent.

Next he went through the information on the other victims. One had been a hooker, one an aspiring actress, one a retiree from Michigan, and the man who had managed to crawl out only to die a short time later had been a mechanic. Of the four the only one with a record had been the hooker. None of the others raised a red flag.

His cell phone rang and he looked at the caller ID: Los Angeles County Medical Examiner. "Houston."

"Hey, _amigo_." ME Raoul Jimenez's voice came across the line. "You got tagged with the fire at the El Toreador this morning, right?"  
"Yup."

"Okay, just wanted to let you know that we got enough prints off the victim in 221 to identify him. His name is Wyatt-"

"Somerville."

"Smart ass."  
"Like I tell Hoyt all the time - better than a dumb one. Actually, I found his name on some papers in a duffle bag in the room. Just didn't have a wallet on him so I wasn't one hundred percent sure. So thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll be doing the autopsy on him in a couple of hours or so. Depending on how cooperative this next client is." He gave a laugh.

"You ain't right, _compadre._ But I appreciate you anyway."

"Talk to you later."

The call ended and after glancing at his watch he closed up the computer, downed the last of the now-cold coffee and went over the back of the couch to turn off the coffee pot. Next he tossed the laundry in the dryer, locked the doors behind him and set the alarm. He rode down to the parking garage and stopped outside the truck to put on the gun belt and the fire department badge.

The trip to the home of Somerville's ex-wife on Crestmont in the Silver Lake area took him a little more than fifteen minutes and he exited the truck on a hilly street with average looking homes. This one in particular was hidden behind a jungle of various kinds of palm trees and cactus plants. _Cuts down on cutting the grass I reckon._ He went up the driveway and the walk to the front door noticing that a car in the drive had the name of a local hospice agency on the door. He rang the bell and a tired looking man in his twenties came to the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes sir. Name's Houston…" He flashed the fire department ID. "I'm investigating a fire that took place this morning at the El Toreador motel." The young man stared blankly at him. "I understand that Ms. Eleanor Kulchek lives here?"

"Yeah." He stepped through the door and out onto the shaded porch. "She's my mom. But I don't understand why you want to talk to her."

"She was married to Wyatt Somerville?" The angry look that washed over the young man's face said a lot.

"What - did the lowdown drunk set the place on fire?"

"No sir." Matt paused. "I need to inform you that he's dead."

"Good." There was a shaky breath taken and released before he looked back at the investigator. "I'm sorry. He's...he was my father. I'm Christian. Kulchek. I don't use his name."

"I'm very sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am." He motioned to a pair of rocking chairs to the right of them and they took a seat. "He was a rotten excuse for a father and husband."

"Seems like he had a drinking problem from what I saw of his record." Matt kept his voice quiet.

"That's an understatement. He used to beat us - mom, Valerie, and me. Valerie was my sister. She ran away when she was twelve and got killed down on the Union Pacific tracks."

Once again Matt apologized.

"Mom wasn't at the motel. She's…" His voice cracked and he bit his lips and forced himself not to cry in front of the stranger. Motioning to the car in the driveway he continued. "She's on hospice. Not sure how much longer she has. Breast cancer."

"I'm sure sorry to hear that." Houston felt really bad for the guy. "And I apologize for bothering you. We're just having some trouble trying to figure out exactly what happened." He paused for a minute and then continued. "It looks like Mr. Somerville was shot and then set on fire. Other fires were set, too, and four other folks were killed. I was just hoping that maybe y'all could give us a direction to look in."

There was a bitter laugh. "I'd say anyone who knew him for more than five minutes would be a suspect, Mr. Houston. He was just that kind of person."

Nodding, he had the feeling that Christian had nothing to do with it. "Would you happen to know if he still lived over on Homer Street?"

"I really couldn't tell you. I haven't talked to him since mom packed us up and left about eleven years ago."

"She, uh...she's not in shape to answer any questions I take it?"

The answer was a shake of the head. "They've got her pretty doped up. She's been in a lot of pain."

Matt watched as the young man choked back tears. He reached in his pocket and handed over one of his cards. "If y'all need anything - and I mean anything - call that cell number. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Christian nodded and stood as the stranger did. The pair shook and Matt went back out to his truck without another word. He climbed behind the wheel and opened the laptop on the console and added the information from Christian Kulchek to the file. Closing it up, he started the truck, pulled away from the curb and headed for Homer Street, all the while thinking that Mr. Wyatt Somerville didn't appear to have left behind anyone who would miss him in the least.


	3. Chapter 3

**03**

The conversation that Houston had with the apartment manager over on Homer Street was a good bit like the one he had just shared with the dead man's son. According to the manager Wyatt Somerville had been a waste of space and was evicted from the apartment over eighteen months before. Regardless, Matt's job required him to find out what had happened to the man and caused the deaths of the other lodgers.

He got behind the wheel of the truck and decided to go see what the autopsy on Somerville could tell him. Maybe he would be able to get some information on the bullet. He had checked the mattress and it wasn't there. No bullet had been found in the walls of the room either. It looked as if he had been shot there - and given the large hole in his chest Matt doubted if he had moved much if at all after the shot. It was puzzling to say the least.

The drive down the 101 to North Mission Road was reasonably good and took a little less than half an hour. As he drove his mind drifted back to the question of the expected twins. He had a pretty good track record predicting the sex of unborn babies, but for some reason this pair was throwing him off. He just couldn't seem to get a good read on them. A grin crossed his face and he wondered if they would be as wild as Vinnie and Mike. Sheila had been excited to hear that CJ was pregnant again but had been shocked as had the rest of the family and friends to find out that twins were on the way. He had volunteered to give her combat pay and she laughingly accepted.

Parking in the lot at the building he could see a familiar Nissan parked a few spaces over and smiled. Bridget Jennings - wife of Detective Lee Jennings - was back at work as a receptionist for the ME's office. He entered the building and was greeted by both of the women behind the counter. Agnes Bowen was the older lady who worked there and the two women were the best of friends with Agnes claiming status as an unofficial grandmother to baby Noah William. After receiving a hug from the new mom he was subjected to the latest pictures of the little boy whose middle name was a tribute to the PI who had delivered him in the elevator of the police station.

"And we're setting up the date for the Christening. We have a meeting with Father Pacheco on Thursday."

"Just let me know and I'll be there with bells on. So did Lee tell you the news?" The smile on his face couldn't have been any bigger.

"Yes! You and CJ are going to need a bigger house!"

"Nah, the one in Texas is Texas-sized." They shared another laugh as Agnes Bowen was brought up to date and looked shocked.

"So did you stop by just to see pictures or what?"

"No, Doc Jimenez is doing an autopsy on a guy that I'm looking into for Don MacLemore."

"From that motel fire this morning?" Agnes shook her head sadly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"He's up on two. Go ahead." Bridget gave him another hug and he went up on the elevator to find the Medical Examiner walking down the hall with a cup of coffee and a pastry that he had evidently just gotten out of the machine in the break room.

"S'up?" He stuffed half of the danish into his mouth.

"Have you done Somerville yet?"

"Nuh uh." The doctor swallowed coffee and cursed. "Too damn hot and I knew it." The reply was a snicker. "Even if you are being an ass I'm going to suggest you put on a hazmat suit."

"Yeah, had to take a shower after I left the scene earlier. Don't think the folks at the Waffle Hut were too thrilled to be around me this morning."

Both men laughed and Matt ducked into the locker room and put on the white suit that Jimenez handed him. They entered the room where Somerville's body was waiting for them.

"Crispy for sure." Jimenez shook his head. "Hell of a hole in his chest."

Matt nodded. "I'm thinking that's the exit. The hole in his back is smaller." He had seen the wound when they were loading the man in the body bag that morning. "My problem is that I haven't been able to find the bullet."

"Well…" Raoul began the exam. "With this big hole here I wouldn't see how it could still be inside. But we'll find out."

Standing well back out of the way, Houston watched and listened as Jimenez began the exam. Samples were taken from the skin - what was left of it - and as Raoul examined the man's face he called the fire investigator over.

"Look at this." He scraped a sample of something yellow off the temples. Until he was under the bright lights of the exam room, Matt hadn't seen them.

"That's weird. What do you think?"

"Well, just off the top of my head it looks like paint."

"Yeah, kind of."

The exam continued and what was left of the clothing was cut off and sent for analysis: they found more of the yellow substance on both the shirt and pants.

Jimenez examined the arms and when he got to the right hand he beckoned his friend over again. "There's more on his hand. Look at the nails and cuticles." Both men bent closer.

Houston nodded. "There's more than just yellow - there's red, blue, and green. Maybe black, too." He remembered that Somerville was a known drunk and related the information to the ME. "Maybe he was huffing paint, too?"

"Could be. We'll have to see what the lab work shows. Sure looks like a possibility."

After the external exam the doctor cut into the body and made a modified Y-incision due to the hole in their victim's chest. It was a messy business and once the chest cavity was exposed the men shared a look. "Did his lungs explode?" Matt was amazed to see that there was very little left of the organs; a large part of the stomach and liver were missing as well.

"You know, if he inhaled a lot of it…" Raoul paused and looked at the carnage inside the body cavity. "I guess it could happen. You're the fire guy. Wouldn't there have to be a flame while he was inhaling it?"

"Yeah…" Houston was shocked. "What about his back?" He watched as Jimenez removed what was left of the lungs, then looked at the liver.

"Geeze, this guy's liver was in rough shape before the fire."

"He was a drinker."

"Damn." Shaking his head he removed the organ. "If he hadn't died from the fire I don't think he would have lasted much longer anyway." Next he removed the pancreas which also looked diseased and then the remainder of the stomach. They could now clearly see the small hole in his back. He inserted a probe. "Looks about like a .22." He looked around in the mess of the man's abdomen. "Bingo." Reaching in with a pair of forceps he removed a slug. "Damn shame the thing in the best shape inside of him wasn't supposed to be there in the first place." He put the bullet into a pan where it was photographed by both his assistant and Matt. After it was washed off the assistant put it in an evidence bag for Matt who held onto it.

The rest of the exam went uneventfully and the pair returned to the locker room where the investigator ditched the suit and retrieved his gun belt from a locker. Jimenez was looking at the bullet while Matt fastened the clips on his leg.

"Let me know what you find out. This one is interesting as hell." He handed over the bullet and the two men shook hands.

"I'll sure do it. Thanks for the help. And let me know about the other folks from the fire, would you?"

"That's why they pay me the big bucks."


	4. Chapter 4

**04**

Houston slid into the truck and immediately called Don MacLemore. "You ain't gonna believe this."

"Oh, boy. What?" He listened as the investigator told him about the autopsy.

"So I guess he would have had to inhale the spray paint when there was a flame. I can't figure out the .22. Unless…" Matt paused as he thought it through. "Maybe the explosion happened and then the gunshot? I need to go back in there and have a look at the floor. If the shot came from the first floor…"

"Damn, what a mess. Yeah, that sounds like a possibility."

"There were cigarette butts in the ashtray but I didn't see any evidence of one being anywhere on the body or the bed. Or a lighter. Or a can of paint for that matter."

"Just keep after it. You've made a lot of headway since this morning. I appreciate it."

"No problem. I'm just...amazed." Both men laughed then said their goodbyes and Houston started up the truck, first dropping off the bullet at the lab, and then making his way back to the wreckage of the motel.

Larry Carlisle had been stuck with overtime guard duty and was still there running off people who insisted on trying to get a closer look at the disaster. He saw the Chevy approaching and moved the tape so that the investigator could park inside. In a minute he was rewarded with a cup of coffee and a pack of cookies that Matt had gotten out of the breakroom at the fire department. "Wow! Curb service. Thanks." The two men stood drinking coffee and devouring the cookies talking about what a mess it was.

Larry reached into the pack for another cookie. "You know, there have been a lot of calls out here in the last couple of years. I was surprised this one was for a fire. It's usually hookers or drugs or some such. It's become a nuisance."

"Yeah." Matt was thinking about the babies again and gave the cop a big smile. "So, I've got some news."

"CJ is expecting again."

"Hoyt told you?" The investigator was surprised.

"Nope. Nothing else would put a smile on your face like that."

"Uh huh. But you don't know the half of it." He told about the twins and had a good laugh at the look on the cop's face.

"Good Lord! You're gonna take over the planet at this rate." Larry laughed some more and clapped the younger man on the back. "Good. It might be hell until they grow up, but if they turn out like their mom and dad they'll do some good in this old world."

"Well…" Matt looked at his watch. "Guess I better go back in here and do some more looking around. Gotta figure out where a bullet came from."

"Be careful in there."  
"Yup." Matt went back to the truck, considered it for a moment and pulled out his turnout pants, boots, and the helmet, then put on a pair of nitrile gloves. With clipboard in hand he went over to the remains of the building. Looking up he found room 221 and then went to the room that was directly underneath and entered through what was left of the splintered doorway. This room didn't seem to have sustained a lot of fire damage, but there was a good inch of water standing in it. Just as he pulled out his flashlight his phone rang and he stopped to see who it was. "Hey, Michael."

LAPD Lieutenant Michael Hoyt was seated behind his desk. At 11:15 in the morning he looked like it had already been a long day. "Hey. I've been working on the guest list at the El Toreador."

"Ah hah! So you got tagged with it." Houston chuckled, put the phone on speaker and clipped it onto the suspenders of the turnout pants. Clicking the flashlight on, he began by looking first at the wreck of the floor as he worked his way inside and over to the bed.

"Yeah. I've accounted for all of the guests with the exception of two. Their names are Yuri Vastag and Destiny Coombs. No sign of them anywhere - Red Cross, Salvation Army - nobody has seen them."

"Have you run a check on them?" Matt didn't see anything of interest on the floor between the door and bed and now started looking at the ceiling.

"I have. He's a pimp and she's a hooker."

"Uh huh…" The investigator grabbed a questionable looking chair and stood up on it as he examined the ceiling directly over the bed. "And they were registered in room 117 I bet." He pulled the small camera out of the pocket of the pants and took a picture of what appeared to be a bullet hole.

The cop let out with a sigh and replied irritably. "Honestly, Houston. If you already knew all of this why in the hell am I even having to sort through this mess?"

"Because about the time you told me I found the bullet hole in the ceiling of 117. Kinda logical to figure that they were the ones staying here."

"Oh. Sorry." Leaning back in his chair the cop ran a hand over his tired face. "So you're still at the scene?"

"Just got back a few minutes ago. And get this." He told about the spray paint angle.

"Damn." Michael picked up the coffee mug on his desk that had been a gift from Catey Rose. It was covered by a picture that she had drawn of him - not the most flattering in the world but certainly heartfelt.

"Been a hell of a day." Matt had taken several pictures of the hole with an evidence marker next to it. After stepping down he began looking around the room. "I really don't know what to think. He couldn't have breathed in good enough to huff the spray paint if he was shot and if he huffed first and blew up then the shot didn't hurt him - he would have already been dead." He opened a drawer on the bedside table and looked through it. "And that still doesn't explain the trailers along the upper and lower floors and the fire set outside the office."

"Damn."

"You're repeating yourself, pard. Sign of old age."

"Shut up."

"Hmmm…" Matt had reached back into the back of the drawer and found a pack of pills. "Looks like Destiny Coombs is missing her birth control pills. It gives an address on " He bagged and tagged the evidence and continued searching the room.

"Is there a pharmacy name on there?"

"Yup. The Goldman Pharmacy up on Pico." He looked at the bag and rattled off the information for the cop who jotted it down. After popping the bag in the pocket of his pants he then went into the bathroom and gave it a look around. "Shit!" He darted out of the bathroom door as part of the ceiling in the bathroom gave way with a downburst of soggy tiles, water, dirt, a couple of dead pigeons and the remains of what he thought might have been a rat at one time.

"You okay?" Although Hoyt hadn't seen the building in person he had seen it on the news and knew that it was in bad shape.

"Glad for the helmet." Matt explained what had happened as he moved back through the room. Something underneath the luggage rack in the corner caught his attention. "Bingo. I've got a gun." He first took a picture and then pulled a pen out of the clipboard and carefully eased the pistol off of the wet mess on the floor. Stepping outside the door of the motel he hollered at Larry. "Got a gun box?"

There was a wave of acknowledgement and the senior cop went to the trunk of his patrol car and pulled out the requested box and trotted over to the investigator. "Here…"

"Thanks, bud." Matt carefully put the gun inside and then fastened it with the included zip ties. "Michael, do you think you could get one of your lab folks to come over here and get this? I need to do some more looking around and our lab is swamped right now because of the wildfire cases. Since this is a joint effort…"

"You've got it. Need anything else?"

"Another shower - but that'll have to wait. Thanks."

"Talk to you in a little bit." The cop hung up and then called up to the lab reaching Bob Wisnewski and passing along the request. His next move was to go to the pharmacy and find out what he could about Destiny Coombs.

Tamara Placer had spent the morning laying out a strategy for ruining the life of John Whitaker. She had blown into her office and demanded that her secretary get her breakfast, then pitched a fit when it wasn't exactly like she had asked. The young woman was near tears as she was rudely commanded to leave. An hour later the producers of "Primetime Truth" ordered her to a meeting - which did nothing to improve her mood. She had already been warned several times that she needed to broaden her scope of reporting - basically a nice way of saying find something else to report on other than Matt Houston. The ratings were beginning to slip and feedback from viewers showed that people were beginning to tire of her hounding the man. His takedown of the crazed clown killer recently had more people in his corner and they were starting to question why the reporter seemed to only be digging for dirt on him when there were so many other topics out there that needed to be explored. This time there was an ultimatum: either come up with something newsworthy that wasn't about Houston or hit the unemployment line.

Covering up her surprise, she calmly told them that she was working on an exposé on none other than the chief of the LAPD. That shut them up just as she knew it would and she left the meeting with her head held high. Going down to her car, the reporter thought about it. She could continue finding the dirt on Houston - just on her own time. Right now John Whitaker needed to be wrapped up in a big red bow and offered up as a gift to the producers.


	5. Chapter 5

**05**

"Lieutenant Hoyt - LAPD." The tired cop flashed his ID at the girl behind the counter of the pharmacy. After explaining the investigation, he asked if they had a more recent address for Destiny Coombs.

"I dunno…" The twenty-something with rainbow hair looked at him dubiously. "I don't think we can give out information like that." She called the pharmacist over who also gave him a nasty look.

"You'll have to call corporate. Probably need a warrant." With a hateful glare he turned and went back to his work.

Stepping out on the sidewalk, Michael blew out a breath. He had hoped that getting a warrant wouldn't be necessary - time was ticking by rapidly. As he got into the car a thought came to him and he pulled out his cell phone. The call was answered on the second ring.

"Hi, Michael. What's going on?" CJ had just finished cleaning up a mess of mustard and ketchup that Vinnie and Mike had decided made great weapons for a shootout.

"Can I get some help?"

"Sure. Whatcha need?" She washed her hands at the kitchen sink.

"An address." He explained the situation and that it was in connection with Houston's fire investigation.

"Hang on and let me get to the office."

He could hear the sound of the kids in the background fussing about naptime and smiled. As crazy as it was with the three little ones at home already Matt and CJ wanted more. _Better them than me._ It got much quieter and he heard the click of the computer in the home office.

"Okay, who or what?"

"Destiny Coombs. Also Yuri Vastag. I've already checked out the addresses from their last booking sheets and they are a no-go."

"Ah hah. So they've been in trouble before." Her fingers flew across the keyboard. "Okay. As far as Destiny goes, I have an address for her sister Kit at 200 Reno Street, number eight. I don't see anything else related to her. Now Mr. Vastag…" She worked the keys some more. "Hmmm…" There was another flurry of strokes. "His grandmother has an apartment at 1032 Sweetzer, number forty-three, in West Hollywood. Nothing else on him. I don't see any phone numbers for either of them."

"I appreciate it. How are you feeling?"

"Good, thanks."

"Okay, better get back to work. Thanks again."

"No problem. Talk to you later." After he hung up she sat thoughtfully for a moment, then took a little cyber trip into Tamara Placer's life once more. Apparently she had gotten her press credentials restored after CJ had wiped them the night before. _Too bad._ _I'll have to come up with something else. _

Back at the El Toreador, Houston had signed over the pistol to Bob Wisnewski and was going back over Somerville's room again, this time looking for a spraypaint can. None of it made sense. He kept thinking of how Christian Kulchek and Somerville's former landlord had described the man in room 221 and wondered if he had managed to piss off someone else.

The ceiling in the motel room had sustained some damage, most of it immediately over the bed where the man's chest had exploded. He grabbed a chair and shone the flashlight on the ceiling and paused. "There you are, you sumbitch." Holding the camera up, he snapped a picture and after making sure that the shot was good, he stretched and managed to grab hold of the can. "Yellow." There were scorch marks on the exterior of it and as he looked between the bed and the ceiling, he pictured what it must have looked like. He knew from previous experience during a case in Laredo that a spray can would take off like a missile. So it would seem like the logical way that it made its way up into the ceiling of the room. He pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket, labeled it, and put the can inside before sealing it.

As he went out to go to the truck he considered the death of Somerville further: there was no lighter or other means of setting a fire in 221. There were no signs of the ignition coming from the electrical connections in the room. Someone had to have set the fire. If it had been Somerville there would have been some kind of evidence of a lighter or matches still in the room. Someone else had started the fire. The paint can didn't have a bullethole in it. And since the shot had come from downstairs in 117, maybe Vastag or Coombs had done it. They were definitely going to need to be questioned. He was glad that Michael was on their trail.

Going back down the stairs he walked toward the front of the building and stopped at the spot where the fire had been set outside the office door. Shaking his head, he removed the helmet for a minute catching the breeze. It was another hot day and it had been stifling inside the rooms. Putting the helmet back on he considered the property. Back forty-five years earlier when it had been built it was decent enough; in recent years it had been going down. "And that's something else that you need to check into, Mattlock." He chuckled as he realized that once again he was talking to himself. He went inside the office and back around the counter. Earlier that morning he had sent the computer from the hotel to the lab at FD. He still needed to check with Yoshi or whichever of the techs was going through it. There was a small living quarters set up in the back of the office and other than some water damage it appeared to be untouched. He opened up a door and discovered that it housed some of the cleaning equipment used on the property. A space was open on one of the shelves and he wondered why that particular cleaning agent was gone. He leaned forward and looked deeper into the shelf and saw that one can was pushed all the way to the back. Edging it forward, the words "Methylated Spirits" came into view and his perspective of the events of the last few hours started to shift.

Hoyt pulled up outside of the apartment building on Reno Street and waited a couple of minutes for Jennings to arrive. The new dad pulled to a stop behind the lieutenant and both men exited their vehicles, went up the walkway and climbed the steps to apartment eight. Michael knocked as Lee gave their surroundings a onceover. It was just an average working class apartment building, no better or worse than others that he had seen. After a slight delay the door was opened a few inches by a woman in her twenties.

"Lieutenant Hoyt, LAPD." He flashed the badge again. "I'm looking for Destiny Coombs."

"She doesn't live here."

Lee looked at the woman's eyes: she was obviously terrified. He and Michael exchanged a look and it was obvious that the older man had noticed. The senior officer removed his notebook and began writing.

"When was the last time you saw or spoke to her?" He looked inside at the small sliver of apartment that was visible to him and saw no one. When he looked back at Kit Coombs her eyes kept darting off to the right behind the door.

"I don't know. Probably a month."

"Could you tell me if this information is correct?" He had written _are they inside?_ on the paper and she nodded.

"Yeah. That's the last address I know about."

Several things happened within the next few seconds. "We appreciate your help. Could you step out here and look at a picture that we have?" Without waiting for an answer he reached in and grabbed her by the arm and yanked her through the doorway as Jennings brought his pistol up. Hoyt shoved Kit toward the stairs, drew his own pistol and watched as a heavily tattooed arm with a pistol in it it snaked out from behind the door. He and Lee both used their free hands and grabbed it, Lee taking the wrist and Michael the forearm, and snatching the body that it was attached to toward the railing of the walkway. The young detective slammed the man's wrist down on the railing and the pistol twirled through the air, clattering down on the sidewalk below as the cop swiftly brought the arm behind the would-be assailant. Hoyt grabbed his cuffs and got one on the man's left wrist and started to tighten it.

Yuri Vastag swung his right fist in a backward motion and caught Hoyt in the right jaw knocking him back into the brick wall of the apartment. Jennings swung a left fist and caught Yuri squarely in the nose and drove him back through the doorway, falling on top of the man before flipping him face down and wrenching his right arm behind him. The second cuff was snugged down and Lee called out to his boss. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Michael came through the door with his pistol drawn and began looking for Destiny Coombs. There was a sound from the back of the apartment and he swiftly made his way in that direction, finding the young woman as she was trying to squirm through the open bathroom window. Holstering his weapon, the lieutenant caught the waistband of her jeans and tugged her back down and using his left leg, tripped her and brought her down on the linoleum floor. He reached back for a second pair of cuffs and hooked her up, noticing that there were gauze bandages on both of her arms. After searching her none to gently, he got Coombs to her feet and pushed her ahead of him into the living room where Lee was removing an assortment of weapons from the pimp. A pair of brass knuckles, a butterfly knife, and a chain were on the coffee table by the time he finished.

Hoyt made Destiny get down on the floor before pulling his phone out and calling in.

"Need an ambulance, too." Lee rocked back on his heels and pointed down at Vastag. "He's out."

"Good." Hoyt added the request and hung up, gingerly rubbing his hand along his jaw that was throbbing.

"It should really give your campaign a boost." Tamara Placer was straining not to crack up as she attempted to lure the chief into agreeing to a live interview on her show. "The producers are really excited at the prospect of your appearance." She watched as the technician applied a second coat of polish on her nails.

"Well…" John Whitaker put the cap back on the bottle of vodka and slipped it into the bottom drawer of his desk before covering the phone as he burped. "I should probably talk it over with my campaign manager."

"Oh, John. Come on. It will just be the two of us. There's no reason to bring him into it. I need it to happen today. My bosses are counting on you. And you know…" She added a sexy tone to her voice. "Once we're done at the studio maybe we could enjoy a nice, quiet dinner...at my place. I'm sure you would love dessert."

On the other end of the call the chief's jaw dropped. All the time that he had helped the woman out with special access to the department he had secretly hoped to bed her. There had been a few interesting moments on the couch in his office, especially when she had first approached him to ask for special interviews with various sections of the LAPD. Trying for a smooth voice he agreed. "I couldn't very well say no to that, now could I?"

"Wonderful, wonderful. I'll see you at the studio about 4:30 then. And bring your appetite." With that she ended the call.


	6. Chapter 6

**06**

For the second time that day, Matt emerged from the shower at the office. He looked at his watch: 4:33. He had run by the drive thru at the Burger Nerd for a late lunch before hitting the shower and now pulled a pair of black BDU pants from the closet along with one of his fire department polo shirts. As he zipped up the duty boots, a smile went across his face. Hoyt had called him as he was leaving the scene earlier and told him that Coombs and Vastag would be available for questioning at his office. He wondered what Whitaker would do if he found out that he was once again back in an LAPD building. _But this time, _he straightened the legs of the pants over his boots, _I'm going to be there working for someone else._ There had been a hint of laughter in Michael's voice when he invited him and it made the investigator smile yet again.

As he pulled up to the guard post at the entrance to the parking garage at the central precinct, Houston smiled at the older cop who was on duty. "How ya doin', Charlie?"

"Hmmm…" He grinned at the man. "Well, it _was_ a nice quiet day until now."

Matt held up the fire department ID. "Gotta question a couple of folks up on the fourth floor for the Fire Marshal."

"Heh, heh, heh. Bet old Whitaker didn't think about that one. And there's not a Goddamned thing he can do either." Bowing, he waved the younger man in. "Be my guest. Good to see you, son."

"Thanks." Matt pulled on into the garage and found a spot next to Lee's car. He punched the button and after a moment's thought, went up to the first floor lobby of the department. In an effort to follow the rules, he stopped by the front desk for a visitor's pass. The cop there was all smiles and immediately handed the clip on pass to him. "Welcome back. Hoyt called down to warn me." He held out his hand and the two shook.

"Thanks, Sean." Matt went to board the elevator and the door was held open for him by another officer with a huge smile on his face. When he stepped off on the fourth floor a rowdy cheer went up and he was swamped by the group of detectives and clerk Merlin Jackson. A mug of coffee was given to him before he, Michael, and Lee started down the familiar hallway to the interrogation rooms.

Lee gave the man a look. "Sure are some funny clothes you're wearing today."

"At least these are clean. Already had to change twice today." They entered the room where Yuri Vastag was seated, his hands chained to the d-ring in the table. "Mr. Vastag, nice to meet you." Houston sat down at the table and opened up the compartment of his clipboard and retrieved some papers from it. There was silence in the room. Hoyt and Lee both leaned against the wall behind the pimp and watched as Matt casually looked through the papers, sipping his coffee. The silence dragged on and Vastag began to fidget. Lee cut his eyes at Hoyt who was beginning to smile.

When the coffee cup was almost empty the investigator finished the last page and set the papers down on the clipboard and looked up at the man seated across from him. Dark blonde hair shot out in a variety of directions, pale brown eyes surrounded by purple bruises sat below bushy eyebrows, and a huge nose that was bloody around the nostrils was positioned over thin lips, the top one of which had been busted. To Matt he looked like he had been put together out of spare parts. Picking up the mug once again, he finished the coffee and replaced it on the table. "How ya doin'?"

"How the hell you think I'm doing?" There was an accent there, but not an overly strong one. The nasal tone from the broken nose was doing a good job of making it a little stronger in Matt's opinion.

"I was just looking through your record here." He pushed the stack of papers up on the clipboard a little straighter. "I'm sure you already know them, but I'm required to remind you of your rights." He rattled off the Miranda warning. "So…" There was a pause. "You kind of had a rough start to the day, didn't you? Or was it a rough ending?"

There was no reply but Vastag was putting a lot of effort into looking like a hard ass.

"So you and Destiny Coombs were staying in room 117 at the El Toreador. According to the records you had been there since last Thursday." Still there was no response. "In the room up above y'all - 221 to be exact - there was a fella by the name of Wyatt Somerville. Ever heard of him?" Vastag's only reply was to flop back in the chair. Matt continued on. "Well, I've talked to a few folks about him. Seems he was quite the drinker."

"I don't know anything about that."

"Yeah, well…" Matt looked at the empty mug of coffee and slowly began to rotate it on the table, and then fastened a stony stare straight at his suspect. "What do you know about the .22 pistol in room 117?"

"Nothing."

"That's interesting seeing as how your prints were on it...and the bullets that were inside of it." Vastag's face began to color; he got quiet again.

"How do you reckon that happened?"

The reply was a shrug.

"Here's another little interesting fact: the ME found a slug inside of Wyatt Somerville that came from _your_ pistol. There's also a hole in the ceiling of room 117 - _your_ room - that matches up with the size and trajectory of _your_ bullet that was found in the body." He watched as Vastag shook his head and began to bounce his right leg agitatedly. "Want to explain that to me?"

Yuri got still and looked back up at the tall man across the table. Silence permeated the room once again and Matt's eyes stared unemotionally at the man across from him. One minute passed, then two, then three. No one moved. No one spoke. Yuri put his head down on the table but still nothing was said while the investigator continued to stare at the top of the man's head. Suddenly Vastag sat up and screamed, "It was an accident!"

"Oh?" The reply was mild.

"Destiny was upstairs with him. He had paid for her twice while we had been there. When she went up there about 2:30 this morning I was downstairs and I…" He looked ashamed. "I was taking a picture for MugBook. With the gun. And there was a big boom."

"Uh huh."

"It was upstairs. It scared me and I...the gun just went off on its own."

"Then what?"

"Destiny came back down." He shook his head. "She said he had exploded."

"And how would that happen?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there."

"Did she happen to tell you?"

"All she kept saying was he blew up."

"Uh huh." Matt propped his feet up on the table and yawned. "So, what else happened?"

"We left."

"Yeah, and what did you see while you were leaving?" He could tell he had struck a nerve.

"Nothing."

"So there was an explosion and a gunshot and you're gonna sit here and tell me that absolutely nobody came out to see what happened?"

"Nobody was outside. Some people were looking out. But we left."

"Anybody in particular that you noticed?"

"No, just people."

"Uh huh." Matt paused for a minute. "Well, I hope that nose gets to feeling better. I'm sure the folks at the jail will take real good care of it."

"But it was an accident!"

"Maybe. But I believe the detectives here have a few charges for you." He got up from the table and quietly walked out followed by Lee and Michael.

After a quick trip to refill the coffee mug he went down to the room where Destiny Coombs was being held. Both arms were wrapped with bandages as were her hands. She had been placed in a pair of shackles and was securely fastened to a ring in the floor of the room. He quietly took a seat at the table and pulled her rap sheet out of the clipboard without saying a word as she watched him.

In a quiet voice he spoke to her. "Destiny, I've got to tell you something." He rattled off the Miranda warning for the second time that day and watched as she began to cry. After a sip of the coffee he leaned back in the chair. "Bet that hurts." The answer was a nod. "So how did it happen?" She shook her head no and the tears got thicker.

"I just talked to Yuri." Leaning forward he took another long sip of the brew and sat with both forearms on the table and the cup of coffee looped over the middle two fingers of his right hand. "You want something to drink?" She nodded. "What?"

In an almost childlike voice she replied, "A FizzyPop." He looked to Lee who nodded and left the room.

"So tell me about Wyatt Somerville."

Destiny began rocking back and forth in the chair and shook her head. He waited until Lee came back and opened the drink for her, setting it down on the table. With shaking hands, she picked it up and took a long swallow.

"Destiny, you've been busted quite a few times. Prostitution, drugs…" He took another sip of coffee. "You've got a problem with drugs it seems. Particularly meth and crack." There was no answer but she swiped at her eyes. "How long have you been using?" He looked back at her records: although she was only nineteen, she appeared at least thirty. "It isn't going to hurt anything to tell me."

Her eyes darted up to his and then went back to her hands that were still shaking. "Since I was thirteen." She picked up the drink and swallowed.

"I've got some of your mugshots here…" He flipped back a couple of pages and turned the papers so that she could see. "Looks like you were fifteen when this one was taken...and then sixteen. And this was about six or seven months later. Really starting to show on your face there. At seventeen you looked a few years older. But now…" He flipped to the photo that had been taken that day. Looking up at her, he saw as her eyes filled up once again. Her lips were rough-looking from being burnt on a hot pipe time after time. The shaking became more violent. "I'd like for you to get some help. But I need you to help me, too." Her eyes met his and lingered. "Tell me what happened with Somerville." She looked back down. "He was huffing paint, wasn't he?" After a pause she nodded. "And you took a hit of crack." Tears started flowing again and finally she nodded. "And?"

"He just blew up!" The burst of speech from her came out stilted.

"What happened then?"

"His chest was just...there was a big hole. And his eyes were…" She lost it again. Patiently he waited. "They were just staring at me and he was on fire."

"So what did you do?"

"I ran back down to Yuri."

"And then?"

"We got out of there."

"Did you do anything else?"

"No."

"Sure about that?"

"Yes. We were scared and we just left and went to my sister's apartment. It was an accident."

"When the explosion happened did anything else catch fire?"

"No, he just...he blew up and started burning. His shirt and stuff was on fire when I ran out."

"What about the bed?" She shook her head no. "It didn't catch fire?"

"I don't know. Only his shirt was on fire when I left."

He looked to Michael who nodded. "And when the detectives came to your sister's place what happened?"

"Yuri freaked out. He stood behind the door. Told her that if she didn't get rid of them she was dead."

"So she didn't want to help y'all?"

"We didn't tell her what happened with that guy. Just that there was a fire. She just thought we didn't have anywhere else to go."

Matt walked down the hallway with Michael to his office while Lee and Gabby escorted Vastag and Coombs to the elevator for transport to the jail. The pair sat down on the couch and Matt yawned before rubbing his eyes and looking at his phone. It was almost 7:30 PM and he had been up since around 2:00 AM. Tilting his head back he yawned again.

"So what do you think happened?"

"I believe her. She didn't mean for that to happen to Somerville. It was just two people with addictions who couldn't wait for the other to get their fix. Bad timing basically." His phone rang and he answered. "Yeah, Yoshi?"

"You were right. All of the samples that you collected from the fire this morning were due to methylated spirits. And the cans that you recovered from the dumpster had prints on them. We're running those now. Plus the can of spray paint had Somerville's prints on it."

"I sure appreciate it, bud."

"Talk to you later."

Matt ended the call. "Do you know where the manager of the El Toreador is staying?"


	7. Chapter 7

**07**

As the program went to a commercial, Chief John Whitaker leaned across the table toward Tamara Placer. Speaking just above a whisper, his eyes bore into her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"My job." The blonde checked her hair in the mirror that the makeup artist was holding in front of her.

"I thought we had an understanding."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

Whitaker's voice began to rise just as the program started back and the director waved frantically at the pair to warn them that they were once again on live television.

The chief bellowed, "You know exactly what I'm talking about! I gave you access to the department, to investigations, to…" His face was now passing red on the way to purple. "I even agreed to help you get back at Houston! Do you have any idea how much firing him has cost me?" He floundered to his feet. "You're the reason my run for the Senate is in the crapper!" With both hands on the table he leaned menacingly towards her. "You're the reason Sharona left me and went back to New Jersey!"

"Really, Chief Whitaker! You need to remember where you are! Calm down."

"Calm down! How am I supposed to calm down when you've ruined my life?" Whitaker's voice was now full bore. "You are going to pay, Tamara! If it's the last thing I ever do you will pay! Let go of me!" He attempted to break loose from the security guards who swarmed the set and began dragging him from the studio as the cameras continued to zoom in on him. "You're going to get what's coming to you, bitch! If it's the last thing I do!" His words started to fade as he was forcibly dragged outside and escorted from the station. His security detail looked up in surprise. They had been there a little over three hours. Whitaker had demanded that they remain outside and the three officers had been secretly cursing him as they were left to stand in the heat of the late afternoon.

"Get him out of here." One of the guards gave the man a shove toward the SUV that was parked nearby. "He's banned from the building."

Wordlessly, two of the officers bundled their spluttering boss into the back of the vehicle. Not knowing what else to do they took him home, all the while hearing his curse-filled phone call to his campaign manager. "I shouldn't have to run every damn thing I do past you, Curtis!" The reply from the manager was inaudible to the cops.

The sergeant who was seated in the back seat with Whitaker wanted so badly to laugh but knew better. He was just biding his time. It wouldn't be long before the fraud of a chief was out of office. The scene that had just unfolded in front of the studio might well be the final act that convinced the mayor and council to oust him. He had been an embarrassment to the department and now to the city.

What should have been a quick trip of less than twenty minutes to the home stretched into over thirty due to an accident on the Hollywood Freeway. They pulled through the security gates of the Whitaker residence on Rinconia Drive just south of the Hollywood Reservoir and as the chief blew through the front door, they could hear the phone inside ringing. All three men exchanged a look and quietly began laughing. In a flash Whitaker came back outside. "Get out! Get off my property! You're fired!" All three shrugged, climbed into the SUV and went back to headquarters, none particularly worried about being fired. The union rep would get to earn his money and they would likely get a few days off.

Back inside his home, Whitaker picked up the ringing phone. "What?" The voice on the other end indicated that he was to hold for the mayor. He promptly hung up and threw the phone on the floor. Immediately his cell phone started ringing and he also slammed it to the floor and began stomping it. The screen cracked and went black as the body bent almost in two.

Matt found himself dozing in Giovanni's car as they - along with Lee and Michael leading the way - went toward the Ridgeley Apartments where Sunan Somchai lived. He hadn't answered his cell phone and they had no other idea of where he might be at the moment. Matt hadn't made it to fully interviewing the man because of the need to investigate the scene as quickly as possible. He had spoken to him briefly about the guest list and had told him to keep himself available. His research shortly before while using Michael's computer revealed that Somchai wasn't just the manager of the motel - he had bought it a little over four years earlier.

"Hey…" Giovanni reached over and gave him a shake. "We're almost there."

"Uh huh." Matt rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter.

"Your nerves must be better than Lee's. He always complains about my driving."

"Maybe he should try closing his eyes." Chuckling as she swatted at him, he answered his phone. "Yeah, Babe?"

"Hey, just wondered how it was going and if you heard about the big blow up between Whitaker and Placer?"

"Oh?" He listened as she repeated what the news broadcasts had told. His answer was a whistle and a laugh. "Michael and I have been wondering how long it would be before she turned on him. Guess we know now."

"So where are you?"

"I am almost to the Ridgeley Apartments courtesy of Miss Gabby. We're going to pull in the owner of the motel."

"Ah hah. The plot thickens. Okay, just be careful, sweetie. Love you."

"Love you more. 'Bye." He hung up and passed along the news to Gabby who was near to tears from laughing as they pulled into the parking lot after flashing their badges at the guard shack.

They made their way up to the third floor apartment of Somchai as Matt informed the other two of the spectacle that their boss had made of himself. All four were in high spirits as they approached the door of the apartment at the end of the hall. Michael knocked and received no answer. Lee had verified that the man's car was outside and the lieutenant knocked again.

"Sunan Somchai, this is the police. Come to the door." All four were listening intently but heard no sound coming from within. Michael began knocking again and there was a feminine scream from inside. Giving Lee a nod, Michael drew his pistol as did the others and the young detective gave the door a ferocious kick next to the knob. A second attempt proved successful and the group entered.

Down the short hallway to the doorway of what turned out to be the kitchen, they moved silently. Michael cleared the kitchen and the sounds of crying could be heard nearby. The lieutenant paused and listened, then tapped Matt on the shoulder and encouraged him to talk to their suspect.

"Somchai, we need to talk to you." The crying continued and Gabby pointed off to the left and Michael agreed. They moved further into the apartment and came to a halt at the doorway of the living room where the motel manager was standing behind a woman who was seated on the sofa; he was holding a knife to her throat.

"You get out or I'll kill her."

Matt continued to speak in a quiet and calm tone as the others moved back a ways and Giovanni called in for a SWAT team. "Sir, you really need to put that knife down so we can talk."

"No!"

"Is that your wife?" He noticed that both had gold bands on their fingers.

"Yes. Now leave."

"How long have y'all been married?"

The woman began choking back her sobs and replied in a shaky voice, "Four years."

"That's nice. Got any kids?"

Lee glanced at Michael who nodded. Houston knew that they needed to know if there was anyone else in danger in the apartment.

Once again the woman answered. "One. A little girl. Lucy."

Nodding, Matt gave her a smile. "How old is she?"

"Two."

"That can be a fun age. You know, my daughter started trying to flush things down the toilet just before she turned two. Made some God awful messes." He gave a grin as did the woman. "So I guess Lucy is already in the bed?" The answer was a nod and he turned his attention back to the male. "Well, look: why don't you put that knife down so we can talk? All this yelling is bound to wake your little girl up. I know you wouldn't want her to be scared or upset." He saw indecision on Somchai's face.

The woman spoke up. "Please, darling. For Lucy. Please."

He began crying as he turned her loose.

"Good. Now just put down the knife. No need for anybody to get hurt, okay?" Matt began easing into the room, holstering his pistol as his three friends watched cautiously. "Come on, man. Just put it down on the couch." He watched as the blade dropped onto the cushions. "Good." He walked around the end of the couch as the man broke down. Carefully he placed him in cuffs and patted him down. Turning his attention back to the woman he quietly spoke again. "Is your daughter okay?"

"Yes."

"Alright. We need to go down to the station. My friend here will need to get some information from you." The others had moved into the room and Gabby took Somchai by the elbow and began leading him outside.

Michael patted his friend on the shoulder. "Great job."

"I'm going to borrow Gabby for a ride back."

"Go ahead. I'll cancel the SWAT team." As he pulled his phone out, the lieutenant watched the pair as they went through the door and thought about how calm Houston had been the whole time.

Whitaker sat in a lounge chair out by the swimming pool with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a glass of ice in the other. He had gone through the house earlier turning off the ringers on every phone and now sat enjoying the silence and watched as the slight breeze caused a few ripples on the water in front of him. What was he going to do now? Pretty much any chance he had of winning an election had been stripped from him because of Placer: first because of her suggestion that he can Houston and secondly because of what she had done during the interview earlier. He had sat stupidly at first, trying to figure out where she was going with her questions and how to best use them to his advantage to sway voters. Now he understood why Curtis Abbington had always turned down spur of the moment interviews and frowned on the unplanned press conferences so much. They had never really been a problem before - until she turned on him. And once again that question rushed through his brain. Why? Why had she suddenly done a complete one-eighty on him? He had given her everything that she had asked for: more access to the department than any other reporter had ever been given, first shot at important news, access to crime scenes that others were not allowed, and the business with Houston. At one point he had asked her just exactly what it was that the man had done to her and she paused in their conversation with extreme anger on her face. She never had told him. Maybe he had hurt her romantically? Who knew? He and Houston had never been friends on even the slightest level. To him the PI was nothing more than a tool to use to make himself look more competent. He had never figured out why a man like him - a freaking billionaire - would want to lower himself to doing police work. And not get paid. Shaking his head he poured more vodka into the glass and swallowed. Somehow, even though he didn't like the man, he just couldn't see him cheating on his wife. From all he had seen and heard that was one couple that was going to last. Unlike Sharona and himself.

More of the beverage was consumed as he now turned his mind to his wife. Sharona had never cared for California except for the shopping on Rodeo Drive. Lord knew she had done enough of that. She rarely had appeared with him at department functions or when he had started his campaign. They hadn't been close in some time. She said it was because he spent too much time at work. But even when he would make time for her Sharona wasn't to be appeased. "Women." The glass was empty again so he filled it and downed a large gulp. Maybe he should fly to New Jersey and try to win her back. He knew his career in Los Angeles was over. There was no doubt the mayor and council would can him.

The patio doors were open and he heard someone knocking on the front door. No way in hell was he going to open it. If it wasn't the mayor or one of his assistants it was most likely a reporter - or ten. And he wasn't planning on talking to a reporter ever again. He drained the glass and refilled it once more.

The knocking subsided and he went back to his contemplation. Now what? He had left the business in Jersey City behind when California had beckoned him. A few political connections with the right people had put him in contact with the mayor of Los Angeles who wanted the police department run more like a business. The interview and confirmation process had gone quickly and he and Sharona had moved to the Golden State within a month's time. The money was good, the perks fantastic, and he was on his way up the ladder of politics. The office had been the stepping stone he was looking for until Tamara showed up. "Damn bitch."

And he had been warned repeatedly about the reporter, first from one of the assistant chiefs, then by a captain outside of headquarters one day when she approached him asking for special access to one of the department divisions. Even Houston had warned him. And then when he had decided to run for state senate Curtis Abbington had continually warned him. Looking back now, he could see that she had a track record of first supporting and then ruining lives. He just didn't think that he would be one of those. And now he was. The glass was empty again.

His head lolled to the side as the alcohol began to have its way with him. _Maybe I can get Sharona back - and go back to Jersey permanently. _Those were his last thoughts before sleep overtook him.

Matt made the drive back to the ranch in the Santa Monica Mountains while talking with CJ on the phone. He was tired. It had been a long day and it was almost midnight when he disconnected the call and pulled through the security gates at the bottom of the drive and went up to the house. She was waiting for him at the kitchen door with a hug and kiss. After resetting the alarm they made their way back through the quiet home and to their bedroom, closing the door and shutting out the rest of the world - even if it was for just a few hours.


	8. Chapter 8

**08**

Bureau of Investigation agent Greg Montague grunted as he rolled over and picked up his cell. "Yeah.."

"Montague - it's Dunkirk. We've got a call from LAPD to handle a murder."

Greg wiped sleep from his eyes. "What? Are they overloaded?"

"This one hits too close to home. Their chief - or should I say former chief - is a prime suspect and so is Matt Houston. He's worked as an advisor to them for years."

"Who the hell got killed?" The agent now got out of the bed and began fumbling for socks.

"Tamara Placer." On the other end of the line Supervisory Agent Tobias Dunkirk was tying his shoes. "And I need you to work with Cantú on this." He heard silence on the other end of the call for a few beats.

"Sir, given her outspoken views on Mr. Houston is that really a good idea?" The white shirt was tucked in and the belt buckled into place as he spoke.

"At the moment she's all I have available. Look - if she steps out of line call me. I've already

spoken with her about her attitude toward other agents. One more write up in her file and she's going to be placed on suspension. Consider this a test for her."

"Yes sir. I'll get right on it." He took down the address of the scene and after hanging up, cursed all the way to the front door of his apartment. Agent Brenda Cantú had been transferred into the office from San Diego about eighteen months before and had been nothing but trouble ever since. After talking to another agent in the southern city, Greg had found out that Cantú was on her fourth assignment since joining the Bureau of Investigation about two and a half years earlier. She was harsh of her fellow agents - both men and women - and didn't seem to be able to keep her personal life separate from her professional life. Opinions were fine as long as they were kept personal and didn't influence the way a case was handled.

He arrived at the apartment of Tamara Placer a little before four. Once the first cops on the scene had found the door ajar and went to clear it, they found the reporter on the floor. Once it was discovered that she was dead - they had cordoned off the area and called the new acting Chief of Police who had immediately called for state intervention.

Slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves as he exited the sedan, Montague was cleared into the scene by an LAPD officer who didn't seem upset in the least. _From what I've heard most of the police force would have gladly killed her._ It didn't take him long to find the body: sprawled in the center of the living room were the remains of the reporter. Greg shook his head. Whoever had killed her had done their very best to make sure that she was indeed dead. He knelt down over the body and counted what appeared to be at least six shots. Three were center mass, one was in the abdomen, one under the chin, and one was right between the eyes that now stared dully up at the ceiling. The entire top of her skull was missing and he noticed that parts of it were scattered on the floor, the front of the sofa, on the coffee table, as well as clinging to a lamp shade on one of the end tables. He let out a sigh and turned as he heard footsteps behind him.

"So which one got her? Whitaker or Houston?" Brenda Cantú stood angrily over the body.

"Drop the opinions, Agent."

"Typical."

With all the control he could muster, Greg stood back up and looked around the room as two of the bureau's crime scene specialists entered the apartment.

"Jesus H. Christ…" The first - Javier Dimas - shook his head. "Nothing like overkill." He set about photographing the scene as Montague stepped out of the way and began exploring the apartment, noticing that tech Sylvia Yeager had started by dusting for prints at the front door.

Going down the hallway he looked into first the bath and then a bedroom. Nothing appeared out of place and he went further down the hallway and stopped: in front of him was another door with a padlock on it. "What the hell?" He reached up high on the door and tapped so as not to disturb any prints that might be found. There was no reply and he knelt down in front of it and could make out what looked like moving lights inside the room that were shining under the door. Standing back up he paused for a minute before going back into the living room. "Dimas, have you got bolt cutters in the van?"

"Yeah." He stood back up. "What's up?"

"There's a room with a padlock on it down at the end of the hall."

Yeager looked up in surprise. "Do you think someone is in there?"

"I knocked - no answer. Looks like there's a TV or something on in there."

"I'm done with the door here. I'll go dust that real quick." She and Dimas moved down the hallway and began processing the door as Montague went outside and retrieved the bolt cutters from the back of the vehicle. When he came back the other two were waiting with pistols drawn and Cantú stood with arms crossed in the hallway.

Montague tapped on the door once again. "Bureau of Investigation. Is anyone in there?" Still there was no reply and he cut the lock, dropping it into an evidence bag before swinging the hasp out of the way. Turning the knob, he drew his own pistol and eased the door open stopping for a fraction of a second as the wall full of monitors on the far side of the room came into view. Carefully with Yeager and Dimas, he entered and cleared the room while shock clearly showed on all three of their faces. Once they had determined that no one was present the trio holstered their weapons and looked around. There were monitors on two of the walls, all showing video of Matt Houston while the other two walls were filled with photos of the man that the reporter had been hounding for the last few years. In the center of the room was a desk and computer.

Yeager looked dumbstruck. "Javier, get pictures of this. I'm going back for my kit."

Montague stepped back into the hall to be out of the way as Dimas began taking first pictures and then video of the room. Although he didn't say anything, the look he gave Cantú said a lot and he thought to himself, _Who's the crazy one now, Cantú?_

Groaning as his phone rang, Houston fumbled for it without bothering to look at the caller ID. He answered it as he looked at the time. It was almost eight in the morning. CJ had left him sleeping peacefully. "Houston."

"Are you at home?" The cop's tone was quiet and extremely serious and Matt came out of the stupor of sleep quickly.

"Yeah. You woke me up."

"What time did you get home?"

"About midnight. Why?" He looked up as CJ came through the door of the bedroom with a worried look on her face.

"Tamara Placer is dead. Given your history you're being looked at as a suspect."

"Come on, Hoyt! You know I wouldn't waste my time on the bitch."

"Yes, I do know that. And it isn't me that you need to worry about. The Bureau of Investigation is on it's way there now. And don't let anyone know that I called you."

It was as Michael said this that Matt looked at the number that he was calling from: the phone that the PI had given him when they worked the clown murders a while back. "Okay. Thanks. Talk to you later." He disconnected the call as CJ sat down on the side of the bed.

"I guess he told you about Placer."

"Yeah. Said the BI was sending folks out here." He noticed that she looked particularly worried. "Babe, you know I didn't kill her. Hell, I was working right up until 11:15 last night and was on the phone with you until I got here." She nodded but still looked concerned. "What are you so worried about?"

"I, uh…" There was a long pause as she bit her bottom lip.

"What?"

"I did something really stupid. Actually a few stupid things." Her eyes darted up to his face.

"You didn't kill her."

"No. But I did mess with her."

"How?"

"Well…" She considered her words and then most uncharacteristically, they came out in a rushed jumble. "I had all of her utilities shut down, including her phone. Then I had her bank account blocked so she couldn't get into it for three days, and I wiped out her press credentials the night before last. And then yesterday I cancelled her car insurance." She looked up as a surprised expression completely took away the sleepy one that he had previously been wearing.

"You…" He stopped in shock. "You did all that?"

"Uh huh."

"Because she messed with me?" The answer was a nod and he pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her head down to his chest. The next sound she heard was the vibration in his chest as he began laughing.

"Houston, now is not the time to be laughing." Pulling away from him she gave a disapproving look.

"Did you cover your tracks good?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure as hell gonna laugh. You done good, Babe. I'm proud of you. And thank you for taking up for me." He leaned over on his elbow and pulled her in for another kiss before heading to the shower. When he was pulling out clothes a few minutes later CJ came to the bedroom door to let him know that the BI agents were there. A couple of minutes later he entered the home office where CJ was sitting with two strangers. Both stood as he entered.

"Mr. Houston, I'm Special Agent Greg Montague and this is Special Agent Brenda Cantú. We need to ask you some questions."

After shaking with both he took a seat behind his desk where a steaming mug of coffee waited for him. "Sure. Do y'all want some coffee or something?"

"No, thank you. Mrs. Houston already offered." Montague removed a notebook from his suit jacket and began. "Can you account for your whereabouts last evening?"

"Uh huh." Matt took a quick sip of the brew. "I was working on the El Toreador motel fire investigation for the Fire Marshal."

"And where were you specifically between the hours of 8:00PM and 2:00AM?"

"Well, I was on my way to pick up the owner/manager of the motel for questioning about eight. We had to deal with a little standoff situation and then I took him back to the precinct for questioning. It was almost ten when a public defender showed up to act as counsel for him and we were in an interrogation room until about 11:15 and then I came home. Got here about midnight and went to bed."

Agent Cantú now spoke. "Can anyone verify that you were at the suspect's home?"

"Uh huh. Three LAPD detectives were with me: Michael Hoyt, Lee Jennings, and Gabriella Giovanni. I rode over to the address with Giovanni."

"And do you have any proof of your whereabouts when you _say_ you were on the way home?" She gave him a skeptical look.

"I guess you could check my cell phone records. I was on the phone with my wife."

"The entire time you were driving home?" Cantú's disbelief was evident in the tone of her voice and CJ's eyes narrowed as she watched the agent.

"Yes ma'am. I was tired. My day started around two in the morning with a phone call from Don MacLemore - the Fire Marshal. Other than catching a little catnap while I was riding to the suspect's house with Giovanni I was working all day long. She kept me on the phone to make sure I wouldn't doze off."

"We'll be checking those records."

"Good." His tone with her - although completely civil - made it perfectly clear that he wasn't about to take any crap from her.

Montague spoke again. "Sir, would you be willing to take a polygraph test?"

"When and where?" Houston drank down more of the coffee.

"Back at our offices. As soon as we can get there."

"Fine. Let's go." He drank down more of the coffee and then stood.

"I'll be coming with him." CJ stood up.

"Mrs. Houston, that really isn't necessary."

"I'm his lawyer, Agent Montague - I consider it necessary."

Agent Cantú gave a big sigh. "Figures."

Montague turned on her. "Cantú, Mr. Houston has the right to have his lawyer present just like anyone else."

"Sure." She followed them out as CJ led the way.

"Has Sheila got the kids?" Matt put a hand on her waist as they went through the den into the kitchen.

"Yes. They took some carrots down to the horses. I'll let her know what's going on." She removed her phone and sent the nanny a text. Montague opened the back of the black sedan for the couple who slid inside and noticed that they were immediately holding hands.

The ride into downtown Los Angeles was quiet, but their arrival at the field office was not: over a dozen reporters were lined up as they entered the building. Neither Matt nor CJ responded to any of their questions.

After he was given his Miranda rights, Matt was hooked up to the machine and a few questions were asked to set the standard for his replies, including one question where he was asked to lie. After getting the machine ready, the examiner began.

"Mr. Houston, have you spoken to Tamara Placer in the last ninety days?"

"No."

"Have you seen Tamara Placer in person in the last ninety days?"

"No."

"Did you see Tamara Placer anytime in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No."

"Have you had contact with Tamara Placer through telephone, email, or text messages in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No."

"Have you ever been at Tamara Placer's home?"

"No."

"Did you kill Tamara Placer?"

"No."

After a short delay the examiner nodded, disconnected him from the machine, and told him that he could step outside. Matt went back out where CJ was seated and plopped down in the chair next to her, taking her hand in his. They watched as Montague went into the room and Agent Cantú stared at them hatefully. Matt's stomach growled loudly and CJ began to silently laugh.

"Didn't get supper last night."

"I'll make you something when we get back home." She leaned her head over on his shoulder.

In a couple of minutes Montague exited the room with the examiner. "Mr. Houston, thanks for your cooperation. We may have some more questions for you later. I'll give you a ride back home." He pulled the keys from his pocket as Cantú blew out a disgusted breath and rose from her seat. Montague turned to her and spoke in a clearly agitated tone. "You are to report to Dunkirk upstairs." With that he ushered the couple back out of the office and once more past the reporters. Neither of the Houston's replied to the questions, but just smiled as they entered the sedan for the ride back to the ranch.

Once out of the parking lot, Montague glanced up at the pair in the rear view mirror. "I want to apologize for Agent Cantú's behavior. There was no need for her to be rude to you like that."

Matt shrugged. "Not your fault. Maybe she got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

John Whitaker awoke with a start. The glare from the bright sunshine reflecting off the water nearly blinded him and he jumped as someone pounded on the front door. Stumbling out of the lounge chair he nearly fell into the pool as he maneuvered himself toward the back door. Whoever was pounding on the door was going to get it. He made it into the foyer and jerked the door open. "What the hell do you want?"

"Agents Brevinski and Tulane - Bureau of Investigation." Credentials were flashed at him. "Mr. Whitaker, we need to ask you some questions."

"Look, I don't know who you think you are but I am _Chief_ Whitaker of the LAPD. You will address me as such."

"Sir, according to the mayor you are no longer chief. If you will…" He motioned to the car parked in the circular driveway.

"What?" The haze of the vodka began to lift and it all suddenly came back to him: the interview with Placer the afternoon before and the huge fight on live television. Maybe she had reported him to the BI because of his threats.

"We need to ask you some questions, sir. This way, please." The agent took him by the arm, noticing that he seemed slow on the uptake.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Mr. Whitaker, you can call your attorney if you like on the way to the office. Also, I need to advise you of your rights." The short agent began reciting the Miranda warning. When finished he asked, "Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

"I...of course I do, you idiot."

"Then please come with us." He urged the former chief out to the car.

"Wait a minute. I need my phone." Turning back into the house Whitaker stopped in his tracks as he saw the smashed cell phone on the floor and the memory of its destruction came flooding back to him. "Never mind." He turned and slammed the door shut and went with the two agents.

The ride to their headquarters passed quietly for the most part. He had used one agent's cell phone to call Curtis Abbington: he couldn't remember his lawyer's number and Curtis was the only one that he had memorized. As the effects of alcohol began to lift a little more it dawned on him that Curtis hadn't been surprised in the least by the phone call. There were a slew of reporters outside the building and he at once began smoothing down his hair, straightening his shirt and tucking it in before climbing out of the back of the sedan with a large smile on his face as he waved at the crowd.

Once inside the interrogation room, Whitaker stared blankly at the wall as he waited for his lawyer and thought about the situation. What did Placer really think that they would do to him for threatening her? People made threats every day. She had threatened plenty of people herself. He had witnessed it many times.

He began to relax a little bit and was entertaining himself with the thought of how pissed she would be when nothing happened over her claims. When Hugh Webber was escorted into the room he gave the attorney a smile and stood to shake his hand. The lawyer didn't look pleased in the least and demanded some time with his client. The two agents left the room and Webber wasted no time in taking a seat. His voice was snakelike as he hissed at John. "Just what in the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Oh come on, Hugh. You know nothing will come of this. She's just doing it for publicity."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"You know how she is - it's just another way to boost ratings and get more attention. This whole thing will blow over and she'll go back to hounding Houston as usual." He watched as the lawyer's jaw dropped.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"What? That she's an attention whore? Yeah, I know."

"John…" The lawyer leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a point where it was just audible. "Tamara Placer is dead: she was murdered last night."

Whitaker's mouth worked soundlessly as his complexion went chalk white just before he passed out and landed heavily on the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**09**

Back at the ranch, Matt had lunch with the kids and then tucked them in for a nap before going down to the barn with Ben. Bo and Lamar were heading back out to work and stopped to talk to the boss. The elder of the two ranch hands looked worried.

"They let you come back home?"

"Yeah, no reason not to - unless you think I murdered her?"

"No, 'course not." Lamar swiftly shook his head.

"Why in tarnation did they call them state fellers?" Bo began pulling out fencing pliers and post hole diggers for the next job.

"Well…" Matt was sitting atop the pasture fence petting on Cricket. "I guess because they figured that Whitaker was a suspect so they couldn't very well let LAPD handle it. Plus there's my track record with helping the department."

"So you've never helped those other folks?" Ben was leaning against the fence scratching Jasper's jaw.

"Nope." Matt shook his head. "CJ showed me Whitaker's CNZ interview from last night. That was a sure 'nuff mess. By the time it was over and they were hauling him outta there he looked like he was in the outhouse when the lightnin' struck." All four men began laughing.

"Mr. Whitaker?" Dr. Raymond Aristo was looking over the information on the former police chief. "Do you have a history of fainting?"

"No." Although he had regained consciousness within a minute or so, an ambulance had been called for him and an agent had escorted him to the hospital. He now lay on a gurney in the treatment room. His mind was reeling. Why the hell had he threatened Placer the night before? What was he thinking? It was then that he realized that the doctor was staring at him expectantly. "I'm sorry. What?"

"I asked if you were on any medications."

"Yeah, blood pressure."

"Any alcohol use?"

"Some." He looked down as a nurse grabbed his arm and began preparing it for a blood draw.

"Any chest pain, shortness of breath…?"

"No."

"Numbness, tingling?"

"No."

"Alright…" Aristo consulted his watch and then typed something else into the computer. "We'll run some tests." With that he was out of the room and after the nurse finished drawing two vials of blood he was left alone with his thoughts.

His outburst the night before certainly had put him in the spotlight as a suspect in the reporter's death. But he wasn't alone: Placer had pissed off a lot of people, top among them Houston. Could he have done it? And was there any way for him to push the suspicion firmly onto the private eye? Damage control - that was one of Abbington's favorite phrases. He really needed to have a talk with his campaign manager.

"Houston, how are you doing today?" Fire Marshal Don MacLemore had turned on his TV that morning as he got dressed and learned of the death of Tamara Placer as had the rest of the city of Los Angeles - and the world. He knew without a doubt that Matt hadn't killed the woman even though as far as he was concerned nobody had better cause. The reports that had been waiting on him that morning were proof that he had still been working until after eleven the night before.

"Pretty good. How about you?" Matt had just hoisted Mike up onto the monkey bars and was watching as he tried to make his way across like his daddy had shown him.

"Okay. I just got a message while ago. Sunan Somchai's lawyer would like to have a meeting as soon as possible. Can you get down to the jail?"

"Sure. It'll take a little bit what with the traffic."

"How about six o'clock?"

"That should be fine. See you then." He told the kids goodbye and went into the house for a clean shirt, meeting CJ in the hallway and informing her.

"Just be careful, sweetie."

"And don't get accused of another murder, huh?" He chuckled as he went back to the bedroom to change.

The trip to the Twin Towers Jail as it was referred to was fairly uneventful and he put his pistol into the locker like he was instructed and led down a hallway to a conference room where Don and Michael were both waiting. "Howdy."

"Well, Michael - looks like he's still on the right side of the bars." MacLemore gave a chuckle as the cop winced and the younger man just grinned. As the trio sipped coffee and waited, the public defender assigned to Somchai's case came in and took a seat. In a couple of minutes the motel owner was brought into the room wearing cuffs, shackles, and a bright orange jumpsuit. There were dark circles around his bloodshot eyes and his hands shook as he was given a cup of coffee.

The door opened again and an assistant DA entered that Matt had worked with before: Jennifer Garnett. After a brief introduction she looked to the public defender who had asked for the meeting.

"Thank you all for agreeing to meet this evening." Nino Ballenteri was about Matt's age, a few inches shorter and about thirty pounds heavier than the investigator. His hair was mostly gray with just a few patches of dark brown. "My client - against my advice - would like to make a statement."

Somchai took another sip of the coffee. "I set the fires. The city warned me a week ago that if there was one more nuisance call to the property that I would be shut down. When I heard the gunshot I went to see what was going on. I saw that hooker running out of 221 and I went upstairs to see what the problem was before someone called the police." He shuddered, thinking back to the scene that had greeted him. "The man was...smoldering." His hands began to shake even more. "I thought maybe the fire could be blamed on him, the insurance company would pay me and I could sell the property. And I tried to make the fire worse."

There was quiet in the room for a moment and Matt quietly spoke. "Why did you set the fires outside the other rooms - and the office?"

"I don't know. It seemed like it would make it more believable."

"You do realize that four people died because of what you did?" The answer was a nod as the man completely broke down.

The defense attorney cleared his throat. "Mr. Somchai would like to enter a guilty plea on condition that he not receive the death penalty. He's never been in any trouble before and would hope that you take that into consideration." The last was addressed to Garnett who removed her glasses and stared at the legal pad that contained her notes of the meeting.

"Mr. Ballenteri, I can't guarantee that. The District Attorney himself will have to make that decision. We do appreciate the fact that your client has given us the truth. As soon as the DA gives his decision I will contact you." The reply was a nod from the lawyer and another sob from the motel owner as he put his head on the table. The group waited until a guard escorted Somchai back to his cell and then filtered out into the evening's heat, somewhat subdued.

"Well…" MacLemore shielded his eyes against the setting sun. "Houston, you wrapped that up quick. I appreciate it." The two shook. "Hoyt, good to see you again. Thanks for the help."

"Anytime." Michael waited until the Fire Marshal headed toward his car and made sure that no one else was around before saying anything else. "So I heard you passed a BI lie detector test."

"Yup."

"Good."  
"Didn't really think I did it, did you?" Houston was slightly taken aback.

"No...but I sure as hell couldn't have blamed you if you did."

"Heard anything about Whitaker?" The pair began walking toward their vehicles.

"Uh huh." The lieutenant casually looked around before replying. "Word is they took him in for an interview. He left in an ambulance."

"Seriously?" Matt stopped in his tracks.

"Yup. Lee has a friend who works there named Montague."

"Greg Montague? He came and picked me up. And some woman named-"

"Brenda Cantú."

"And you call me a smartass all the time." There was a chuckle from the cowboy.

"Agent Cantú was also put on report for her treatment of you."

"Wow."

"So it looks like you might have another female mad at you." Hoyt cracked a smile and then turned serious once more. "Just try to keep out of trouble, PI."

"Thanks for the heads up this morning. I appreciate it." He clapped the cop on the back and they parted ways.

John Whitaker was once again seated in the BI interrogation room with his lawyer who informed the agents that his client was prepared to take a lie detector test. After a short conference with the man when he had been escorted back to the building, Whitaker was now sweating profusely as he worried about what kinds of questions would be asked. During his time as chief he had participated in some underhanded activities, most of which included Tamara Placer.

After being hooked up to the machine, the former chief went through the same series of base questions that Houston had been through earlier: name, address, age, birthday, and then was asked to lie about a question so that a standard could be set.

"Mr. Whitaker, have you spoken to Tamara Placer in the last ninety days?"

"Yes."

"Have you seen Tamara Placer in person in the last ninety days?"

"Yes."

"Did you see Tamara Placer anytime in the last twenty-four hours?"

"Yes."

"Have you had contact with Tamara Placer through either telephone, email, or text messages in the last twenty-four hours?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever been at Tamara Placer's home?"

"No."

"Did you appear on a television show with Tamara Placer yesterday?"

"Yes." The chief felt his whole body shake and tried in vain to make it quit.

"Did you threaten Tamara Placer yesterday?"

"It...I wasn't serious."

"Mr. Whitaker, as I explained before you need to reply with yes or no answers. Did you threaten Tamara Placer yesterday?"

Angrily he responded, "Yes!"

"Did you kill Tamara Placer?"

"No!"

A couple of minutes passed before he was disconnected from the machine and escorted from the room back into another interrogation room. Agent Ron Brevenski entered along with attorney Hugh Webber who didn't look happy in the least. "Mr. Whitaker, I think we need to talk a little more."

Webber emphatically shook his head. "Agent, my client has been more than patient with you. We'll be leaving now." He motioned for Whitaker and as the former chief started to rise from the chair his head snapped up as Brevenski spoke again.

"Sir, you are to keep yourself available for questioning."

"Just what the hell are you getting at?" Anger flushed the chubby man's face and he took a few steps toward the agent causing Webber to step between.

"Your polygraph test shows some deception according to Agent Wyler. Would you like to talk about it?"

"Yes-"

"NO!" Webber pushed Whitaker toward the door. "No, he would not. If you need to speak with my client further you will be contacting me first." Shoving the man out of the door he hissed in his ear, "Keep your damn mouth shut!"

Outside a crowd of reporters sprang to action as the pair exited the building, shouting questions at him.

"Mr. Whitaker, can you tell us what happened at Tamara Placer's home last night?"

"Sir, is it true that you killed Placer?"

"Mr. Whitaker, what can you tell us about what happened?"

Webber shoved him into the backseat of an SUV and climbed in beside him. The vehicle swiftly left the parking lot headed back for the home on Rinconia Drive.

Greg Montague stifled a yawn as the autopsy on Tamara Placer began. Assistant Medical Examiner Raoul Jimenez - who was typically a talkative individual - didn't have much to say to the Bureau of Investigation agent who was observing. He knew there was no way in hell that Houston would have killed the woman, although he would fully understand if he had. No one from the bureau had asked if he knew the man and he wasn't volunteering any information. The facts would speak for themselves as far as he was concerned.

As he began the external exam, Raoul made note of the location and size of each of the bullet wounds. There had been six. Once he got into the internal exam it was revealed that five of the six would have been capable of causing death nearly instantaneously. From the angle of the wounds and the amount of blood present, it seemed likely that the shot to the abdomen - the least lethal of the six - had been the first. The other five appeared to have occurred with the shooter standing almost directly over Placer and based on the stippling around the wounds, the weapon had been held at a fairly low altitude.

Two hours after it began, the autopsy ended. Agent Montague thanked him and left. As Jimenez closed up shop for the night, he thought over what he had found and was convinced even more that Houston hadn't been the one to murder the woman. He had seen some of the man's work come across his table; if Matt Houston wanted someone dead one shot was enough. The man didn't need five or six. And at a height of 6'3" he wouldn't have been firing from close enough of a distance to cause the amount of stippling. The shooter was much shorter.

As he closed his locker, Raoul thought about John Whitaker. He had never met the man and never wanted to - he was a jerk. From his best estimate the former chief stood at about 5'8" - about seven inches shorter than Houston, but still tall enough to make the stippling unlikely. He flipped out the light in the locker room and hit the elevator down to the lobby turning his mind off of business and on to which restaurant to go to for dinner that night.


	10. Chapter 10

**10**

"So it looks possible that a .45 revolver was used. You said there were no shell casings. And what time of death did the medical examiner estimate?" Tobias Dunkirk had taken off the coat and tie that he had donned in the early hours of that morning and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt as he checked his watch. It was almost 11:00PM.

Greg Montague checked his notes. "Approximately 12:30."

"And who called it in?"

"One of the neighbors called in a noise complaint at 12:26. The first unit arrived at 2:57AM"

"It took the LAPD that long to respond?"

"Noise complaints aren't very high up on the priority list."

"True."

"I spoke with the first officer on scene and he said that they often got noise complaints on Ms. Placer."

"And you say that Mr. Houston was home by that time?"

"According to his cell phone records he left the Central Precinct at 11:17, entered his ranch at 12:04 and didn't leave until we picked him up."

"No way in hell he could have been at Placer's place at 12:26."

"No sir."

"And you say that Whitaker doesn't have an alibi?"

"None at all."

"What about his cell phone records?"

"We finally received permission from him to get them late this evening. His cell phone's last signal was at his home at 8:07PM. According to him, he dropped it and broke it. Agent Brevenski saw it on the floor of the foyer - he said it looked like an elephant had tap danced on it. According to his landline records the last call that he answered was at 8:08PM from the mayor's office. His assistant said that Whitaker hung up on him and wouldn't answer after that. The mayor also went to his house at approximately 8:40 and there was no answer."

"So no one knows where he was until Brevenski got there this morning. Jesus." Tiredly, he rubbed at his eyes and yawned. "And you say that Houston was cooperative?"

"Yes sir."

Tobias swung the chair to look at his junior. "Too cooperative?"

"I don't think so. I believe him. He has proof that he was working and at the LAPD Central Precinct. The cameras in the interrogation rooms and parking garage in the building back up his story and sync with the cell phone records."

Nodding, the older man swivelled in the chair as he thought about it. He had heard nothing but good things about the private eye - at least until Tamara Placer had started reporting negatively about him. That brought him to his next point. "What did the lab recover from the locked room?"

"A bundle." Montague flipped open a folder that sat next to him. "All of the video feed from the computer to the monitors was of Mr. Houston and taken at various times over the last few years. The lab is still trying to approximate dates for the photos that were on the walls."

"Anything on the computer itself besides the videos?"

"Yes sir. They are still going through the journal. It started back in November of 2011. Placer was attracted to him and at first the entries about him were very flattering. Then in June of 2012 she wrote about making a pass at him in the elevator at the Central Precinct. Apparently it was quite physical."

"Oh?"

"Well…" Montague looked slightly embarrassed. "She groped him and made a very suggestive proposition. He shoved her away and told her that he would never cheat on his wife. They had been married about three months then."

"Wow. So that's why she started in on him, huh?" Shaking his head, he yawned.

"Yes sir. That's when she started the smear campaign. Not long after that a bomb was detonated in the parking garage of his office building and she was upset that it didn't kill him."

"She actually wrote that?"

The answer was a nod. "Like I said, there is a lot more like that on there and they are still working through the computer."

"What about prints?"

"Sylvia Yeager lifted some from the front door and from the handle of the laundry alcove - both inside and out. They aren't Placer's, Houston's, or Whitaker's and she was running them when I left."

Dunkirk nodded thoughtfully. "So what's your opinion?"

"I don't think it was Houston or Whitaker." He stood up and began walking around his boss' office. "Houston is smart enough not to leave prints if he was going to do something like that and let's face it: he could get the job done with one shot. I did some checking on him today. Did you know that he got one hundred percent on the range when he qualified for HCSO?"

"I don't know many who ever got one hundred percent except for a few at Quantico when I was stationed there in the Marines."

"He did. I talked to the range master there this afternoon. He sent me a video of it. Plus there's also the fact of stippling on the body. Five of the six shots were fired straight down from a distance of less than three feet. The bullets from the three that were center mass were recovered from the floor. The two head shots were in the sofa and the wall about six inches from the floor. The abdominal shot was found in the same wall about four feet up."

"Houston is what? Six-one or two?"

"Six-three. And Whitaker is five-nine."

"So still too tall to have done it." Standing up, Dunkirk had one more thought. "What about video surveillance from Placer's apartment building?"

"The property management company is supposed to get it to us tomorrow."

"Alright. Let's call it a night."

Bridget Jennings put baby Noah William up on her shoulder and started to burp him as her husband Lee came out of the shower and began getting his clothes together for the next day. "So have you heard anything about Houston?"

"He passed a lie detector test at the BI." He was quiet for a moment as he picked out a tie. His eyes landed on the very one that Houston had given him on the day that he and Bridget had met - the same day that Houston had insisted that he ask her out. Not five minutes later he had informed Lee that the couple would be married. He was right. The tie was pulled from the closet and draped over a blue shirt. "I called a friend of mine today that works for the BI. Greg Montague. He's got the case."

"What did he say?"

"He couldn't say a lot. But he said that they found a lot of stuff in Placer's apartment and that when it comes to light it will prove _she_ was the one that was mentally unstable."

"Wow. No idea what it was?" She made a face as the baby let out with a loud burp.

"He wouldn't say." Turning around he went to take the baby and get him ready for bed. "Noah William, don't you worry. Your godfather is going to be just fine." With a smile he gave his wife a kiss and padded down the hallway to the nursery.

John Whitaker sat alone in the living room of the empty house and poured himself another drink before hitting the button to check his messages. As expected, there were several from the mayor's office including one that informed him that the paperwork for his dismissal would be delivered to him and that there would be no need for him to return to the office. His belongings would be packed up and shipped to him.

There were numerous messages from reporters on both the local and national level including the ferret-faced idiot - Matthew Waller - that Tamara had sent to Houston's office during the clown murder investigation. The man said that both he and his cameraman would be contacting him again to make a settlement for the legal troubles that they had encountered due to his plot with Placer. Waller had paid off a guard at the Houston Industries Building and tried to break into the private investigator's office in the middle of the night and were busted by both Houston and Hoyt when they tried to get through the interior doors. "So you want to blackmail me, do you? Little…" Whitaker growled and moved on to the next message from the lawyer for CNZ who informed him that he had been trespassed from the studio and would be receiving a notice of an impending lawsuit in the days to come.

Then there was a message that sent cold chills down his spine. "Hey, John." Tamara's voice came across the phone and he froze with the glass of vodka halfway to his mouth. "Thanks for the ratings boost. You really saved me. The producers were going to fire me this morning until I told them that you would be my interview tonight. Looks like I can expect a big bonus. See you around." There was a tinkle of laughter before the message ended.


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

Houston fumbled for the phone and answered without even opening his eyes. "Houston."

"I want to hire you."

The voice on the other end of the line was slurred, but even in his half-asleep condition the PI recognized the caller as John Whitaker. He looked at the clock on the nightstand: 3:23AM. "Have you lost your mind?"

"No. Somebody is trying to make it look like I killed Tamara."

As he sat up on the side of the bed, Matt's temper flared. "Yeah, and that somebody would be you. After all the bullshit that you've pulled, do you really think that I would bother to piss on your head if it was on fire? DO NOT call me again. Ever. Understand?"

"But-"

Houston disconnected the call and felt his blood boiling.

CJ was now fully awake. "Who was that?"

"Whitaker." He got up and began pacing around the room.

"What did he want?"

"The idiot says he wants to hire me to prove he didn't kill Placer."

The lawyer sat bolt upright in the bed. "You have got to be kidding."

"Nope." He plopped back down on the side of the bed. "Of all the…" He didn't finish the sentence; CJ would likely wash out his mouth with soap if he completed the thought.

"Wow. Well, come on back to bed, baby. He isn't worth losing sleep over."

"Unbelievable." Shaking his head, he lay back down and wrapped an arm around CJ as she settled in with her head on his chest. He stared up at the ceiling thinking of several things he wished he had told the former chief and felt as CJ's body relaxed into sleep. Taking a glance at the clock, he saw that it was almost four. Finally, he took a deep breath and came to the conclusion that she was right: Whitaker wasn't worth losing sleep over. A few minutes later he was just dozing off when the phone rang again and he swore violently, stopping only when he saw the name on the caller ID: Sheriff Strauss.

"Hello?"

"Houston, sorry for the bad hour. We've got a call that I would appreciate your help on. I've already talked to Don and he said to let you run with it if you would since you're so close."

"Uh, what is it?" He sat up as CJ moved back onto her pillow with a sigh.

"Started out as a car fire at the Backbone Trailhead off of Old Topanga Road. Now it looks like a murder. The fire crew on scene found two bodies: one in the driver's seat and one in the trunk."

"Okay. I'll get up there."

"Thanks. Talk to you later." With that the call was ended and Houston started putting on clothes.

"Okay, I give: who was it that time?" CJ was now laying on her side.

"That was Strauss. Car fire. Two bodies." He explained the rest of it as he pulled on the Sheriff's Department ball cap.

"So obviously _he_ doesn't think you killed Placer." She said it with a smile as he leaned over to kiss her goodbye.

"Apparently. Love you. Get some sleep."

"Love you, Cowboy. Be careful. And call me if you need some help."

"Okay."

After consulting his phone, Matt decided on the quickest route to the scene and took off, hitting the lights and siren on the truck when he got half a mile from the ranch. The drive was fairly short, only a matter of ten minutes with the emergency equipment. When he arrived the fire was out and the crews were rolling up their hoses. When he got out of the truck he put on his fire boots, grabbed his clipboard and camera, and walked past the wooden fence separating the parking area from the trail and down about one hundred yards to what was left of a car. He could tell by the emblem on the trunk that it was a Toyota and closer inspection proved that it was a Camry.

"What kind of deputy are you?"

Matt turned to see a fire captain approaching him. "Well, guess you could say I'm a hybrid. Name's Houston - I work for Sheriff Strauss and Don MacLemore."

"Ah, okay. I've heard of you. I'm Trent Mendez." He stuck out his hand and the two shook.

"Nice to meet you." Matt jerked his head in the direction of the smoldering car. "What do you know about this mess?"

"Not much. We got dispatched at 3:39, got on scene at 3:48. It was a fireball and exploded before we got here. The caller - Nathaniel Dickerson - lives in the house just south of here."

"How did he find out about it?" Matt was jotting down the information.

"Said he got up to go to the bathroom and saw the flickering over the treetops."

"Okay."

"Other than that I can't tell you anything."

"I appreciate it." He drifted over toward the car and set about taking pictures from every angle, then got closer and took photos of the charred corpse in the driver's seat. It was as he was getting photos from the passenger side of the vehicle that he saw what appeared to be a bullethole in the skull.

Next he got shots of the rest of the interior of the vehicle before going to the trunk. He knelt down and took a picture of the license plate, then jotted down the number in his notes. The flash of headlights caught his attention and he saw that someone from the ME's office had arrived. _Gonna play hell trying to get these folks in body bags._

After the driver was removed Matt was able to get what was left of the wallet and found a license for Anthony Dryer of Woodland Hills. The picture on it was of little use because of the condition of the corpse, but the physical description of the driver gave his height as six feet and that seemed to match up. They moved on to the person in the trunk. As the body bag was spread out on the ground Matt took a closer look at the remains. "Maybe a woman?"

The assistant nodded. "Could be." They removed her and the two workers put her in the back of the van with the driver. Matt searched the trunk in vain for a purse but found nothing to identify her. He did, however, find a point of ignition. The remains of a small one gallon gas can were in the left rear corner of the trunk. He snapped pictures, then removed it and sealed it in a bag.

It was as he was labeling the bag that the wrecker showed up. He helped the driver to tarp the car and it was soon loaded onto the rollback and transported to the department's crime lab. Yawning, the detective took one last look around the scene with his flashlight and caught a glint of metal about fifteen feet southwest of where the car had been. He carefully approached it, knelt down and took a picture, then pulled out another evidence bag and eased the Zippo lighter into it and held it up for closer inspection. There was engraving on the front that read _24 February 1991 _along with the Marine Corps globe and anchor_. _Matt froze. He knew that was the date that US ground forces had invaded Iraq in Operation Desert Shield. Slowly, he stood up and sealed the bag.

He shone the light around and looked at the tire tracks that had been made by the Camry and tracked them back to the entryway. There were other tire tracks present, and part of them he recognized as belonging to the fire department vehicles, the ambulance, the ME's van, and the wrecker. Any hope of finding other tracks had been wiped out when the first responders had arrived. Shaking his head, he went over the area one more time and came up with nothing else.

The trip to the crime lab via the 101 took far longer than Matt wanted. Although the lighter might not have been used in the crime, the fact that it was in such close proximity to the trunk of the car was intriguing to say the least. If they could get some prints off of it, it could be a big break through. At first glance it appeared to be a murder-suicide. But two factors were keeping that theory at bay for him: there was no gun in the car and the fire had been started in the trunk. Somehow that just didn't seem right to him. Why start a fire if it was a murder-suicide? It just didn't add up.

Riding up in the elevator he thought about the delay in moving the horses to Texas. Again. Maybe he should get Bo and Lamar to haul the second trailer. He and CJ had planned to take Maple and Cricket while Ben and Marcy were going to take Jasper and Lucy. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes and blew out a breath. He would talk to CJ about it later since Ben was her employee and no longer his.

After logging in the evidence, he paused in the hallway. Looking at his watch he yawned again before going back down to his truck and driving to the Houston Industries building. A nap on the couch in his office was better than nothing.

The alarm on Houston's cell phone went off at 7:30 and he groaned as he shut it off. His first order of business when he rolled off the couch was to make coffee. The second was to call and check up on CJ and ask for a little help.

"Mornin', sexy Lil Mama."

"Well, at least it hasn't been filled with morning sickness." She kissed the top of Catey's head as she put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her.

"Congratulations."

"How about you?"

"Mmmm."

"That good?"

"Good isn't the right word. Can I get you to do some research for me when you get a chance?" He filled up a travel mug, shut off the pot and headed out, stopping to lock the stained glass doors and set the alarm before punching the button for the elevator.

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Information on an Anthony Dryer with an address up in Woodland Hills." He gave her the street and number. "And a guy named Nathaniel Dickerson that lives on Old Topanga. He's the one that called in the fire."

She turned her attention to Vinnie as he took a slice of bacon off of Mike's plate. "Vinnie, give it back. We don't swipe someone else's food." She heard Matt snicker on the other end of the call. "Your sons are in fine form this morning."

"Sounds like it."

"Do you need anything else?"

"Not at the moment - except for some sleep. I'm going to grab some breakfast and head back up to the scene. Maybe daylight will give me something else to work with until the lab can get back to me."

"Just be careful, baby. Love you."

"Love you more. 'Bye." He hung up and got behind the wheel of the Chevy wishing that he was at home enjoying breakfast with his family.

When Matt got back to the scene at the Backbone Trailhead, he greeted the deputy that had been stuck with guard duty since he had left and received a grateful smile as he handed over the sausage biscuits and coffee that he had brought for the poor soul who had been left on scene to keep out the curious.

After another yawn and big stretch he first started by once again following the tracks of the Toyota back to the parking lot. The black top didn't give him any clues. On a whim, Matt walked up to the turn-in off of the road. Dropping down he identified the Camry's tracks and could now see that it had turned in from the north, something that would have been impossible to know except for the fact that the driver had gone through the dirt and gravel on the side of the road instead of turning into the paved driveway. From the look of the tracks he had been moving at a fairly high rate of speed, much faster than he should have. "Great." Blowing out a breath he took pictures of the tracks and followed them back up the road about fifteen more feet where he could see where the car had gotten off of the pavement. A few more photos were snapped and he walked up the road a little further finding nothing else. Turning back toward the scene, he was almost back to the driveway when a short blast of a siren scared the daylights out of him and he spun around to see Strauss with a smirk on his face.

The sheriff rolled down the passenger side window of the SUV. "Good morning. Are you lost?"

"Funny."

"I thought the scene was up inside the trailhead."

"It is. But the driver kinda took a shortcut when he ran off into the gravel up here." Houston motioned in the direction of the trailhead entrance. He continued walking as Strauss hit the light bar and stopped the vehicle, getting out when Matt pointed down at the side of the road.

"Mmmm." The sheriff squatted down next to the tracks. "Hauling ass when he did it, too."

"Uh huh." Matt tried to suppress a yawn unsuccessfully.

"I'll give you a ride back up. Maybe that will make up for the siren." Strauss grinned as he got back behind the wheel and the new sergeant climbed inside. They got out in the parking lot and Matt showed him the tracks to where the car had been burnt.

After another yawn Houston spoke again. "Lucky there wasn't much vegetation close. We would have had another wildfire on our hands." After a pause he got a thoughtful look. "Wonder if maybe that's what somebody had in mind?" He passed along his doubt of it being a murder-suicide. "If this whole area had gone up it might have made things even harder."

Strauss nodded. "Sounds like a possibility." He listened as Houston took him through his investigation the night before and showed pictures that he had taken, the last being the Zippo that he had found.

"That could be a valuable find. Good job." Karl watched as the detective once again searched the area and thought that he had been wise to ask him to come onboard the department.

"Well, I don't see anything else helpful here." Matt put the camera back in his shirt pocket. "Hopefully the lab and the ME can give me some help. Plus CJ is checking into the name on the license I found on the man in the driver's seat."

"How's she doing?" They started back out to the parking lot.

A huge smile covered Matt's face. "That baby bump is coming along nicely."

The sheriff stuck out his hand. "Houston, I appreciate the help. Let me know what you get."

"I'll do it."


	12. Chapter 12

**12**

Back at the office, Matt hit the coffee pot again before pulling up BABY. His notes from the night before gave him the VIN from the Camry and he ran it. It was registered to Consuela Montenez at the same address that he had found for Anthony Dryer in Woodland Hills. "So maybe they were a couple." At least now he had a possible ID on the victim in the trunk. His phone rang and he leaned back on the couch. "Yeah, Babe?"

"I've got the information you asked about on Anthony Dryer."

"Did it include anything about Consuela Montenez?"

"Ring the bell and win a prize. They are engaged."

"Uh huh."

"How did you find out about her?"

"The car was registered to her. So what else did you find?"

"Not a lot really. Dryer is forty-eight, twice divorced, two kids - one by each ex. He works as an IT specialist for the Dollar Days chain. I checked into Montenez; there's a big age difference. She's twenty-four, never married, no kids, and works for the same company."

"Old enough to be her dad, huh?"

"Yep."

"Did you happen to run across any next of kin that we can talk to?" He downed more of the coffee.

"I did for her. Her parents are Julio and Graciela Montenez." She gave him an address on Lemay Street in Van Nuys.

"Thanks, Babe." He jotted down the information.

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"At the moment, no; but you know that could change." He changed the direction of the conversation. "What do you want to do about hauling the horses? Does Ben need to get back to the PH?"

"We were talking about that earlier. Scott has things under control right now and Emilio has been helping him out. Let's just see how this case plays out and go from there. Anyway, it's been awhile since Ben's had a vacation."

"Alright." He drank down more of the coffee. "Guess I better get back to work. I need to see what the lab has if anything, check out their house in Woodland Hills, and maybe the ME can give me something else to work with. Oh, what about the guy that called it in?"

There was a snicker. "Don't think you need to worry about him as a suspect. He's ninety-six years old. Probably not out at three in the morning setting cars on fire."

"Probably not. Okay, thanks again. Talk to you later, sexy. Love you."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Cowboy. Love you. 'Bye."

Grinning, he disconnected the call and closed up the computer before going over the back of the couch and turning off the coffee pot. Just as he was about to leave his phone rang again. "Houston."

"Detective Houston? This is Lucas Pilayo with the lab."

"Yes sir."

"I've been assigned to process the Camry that you sent in overnight. Anyway, the accelerant found in the trunk was gasoline and most likely came from the container that you found. And there was no sign of a gun in the car. We searched it top to bottom."

"What about the Zippo? Did you get any prints?"

"We did. They came back to Joshua Fortner. I've sent the details to your departmental email."

"Okay. Did you get any prints off of the rest of the car?"

"Just smudges except for the steering wheel. They also came back to Fortner."

"Does he have a record?"

"Not with us - the military."

Matt stopped on his way to the door. "Marine Corps?"

"Yes sir."

"How old is Fortner?"

"Twenty-six."

The detective took a deep breath. Why would a twenty-six year old have a lighter with a date from two years before he was born? "I sure appreciate it."

"Yes sir."

The call ended and Matt went back to the computer to read up about Joshua Fortner. Born November 16, 1993 to Annette and Robert Fortner, Joshua had been an only child. He had graduated in 2011 from Van Nuys High School. Matt looked back down at his notes, pulled up a map and located the Fortners' address and then that of the Montenez family. They were within five miles of each other. "I wonder…" Working the keyboard he found an online yearbook for the high school from 2011 and Fortner's photo in the senior class. Montenez had been two years younger and sure enough he found her in the sophomore class. A little more research led him to find that they had dated. There were pictures from the homecoming dance and senior prom that showed the pair together.

"But why the lighter?" After a moment's thought he looked into Joshua's father Robert. "And there you have it." Robert Fortner had served seven years in the Marines and been part of the first US invading forces in Iraq. He had died in an auto accident in 2012 along with his wife Annette. Maybe the lighter had belonged to Robert and Joshua got it after his death.

"What's the story with you, Joshua?" He began digging into the young man's life, finding that he had joined the Marines in 2012 just a month after the deaths of his parents. He had received a discharge in late 2017 and returned to the area, bouncing from job to job. The latest information showed him working construction. After jotting down the company address as well as Joshua's home address he closed up the computer again and left the office, making a phone call to Strauss as he rode down to the garage, bringing him up to date and arranging for a search warrant for the home of Dryer and Montenez.

Raoul Jimenez was just about to start the autopsy on the Jane Doe recovered from a burnt out vehicle overnight. As he glanced through the paperwork he shook his head. "Houston strikes again."

"Hope not. Three strikes and I'm out, right?" The detective had just walked through the door of the exam room.

"You've been busy, _amigo_."

"Tell me about it. I may have a lead on who she is." Yawning, he pointed to the corpse. "Consuela Montenez."

"Okay. Let's see what we can find here." Donning a pair of gloves, the ME began the exam. The poor woman had been burnt to a crisp; parts of her clothing were melded onto what was left. As Raoul took a pair of scissors to remove the boots that she had been wearing he gave a satisfied nod. "We've got a little luck here. She had an ankle replacement. We can get the serial number off of it and find out exactly who she is with that."

Matt nodded and yawned.

The trip up I-5 took almost forty-five minutes thanks to traffic. Houston slid out of the truck and approached the tan stucco house via the driveway where an eight year old Honda Civic was parked. He paused with his hand raised to knock on the door. Death notifications were never easy. Reluctantly, he knocked and the door was opened by a pleasant-looking woman in her forties. He touched the brim of his cap. "Ma'am, are you Graciela Montenez?"

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Houston - LASD." He tapped the badge hooked on his belt. "Would it be okay if I came in?"

"I guess so - is there a problem?"

"Yes ma'am. I really think it would be better if we could sit down and talk."

"Okay." She held the door open and motioned him inside. "Have a seat."

Matt sat down on the edge of the sofa as she took an armchair. He swallowed. "Ma'am, do you have a daughter named Consuela?"

"Yes." Graciela got a worried expression. "Why?"

"Ma'am…" He turned the cap in his hands. "I hate to have to tell you - Consuela was found in a car at the Backbone Trailhead early this morning."

"She was found-" The woman looked confused and sprang to her feet. "Where is she? Is she alright?"

"No ma'am. I'm sorry." He stood as the reality of what was being said hit her and the color drained from her face. Very gently, he helped her to take a seat. "Is there somebody I can call for you?"

"Are you sure it's her?" The voice was just barely audible.

"Yes ma'am. We traced the number on her ankle replacement."

Graciela stared at him blankly for a moment. "But how did you know about it?" Realization came over her face like a tidal wave and Matt helplessly watched as her face first crumpled, and then the little bit of hope that she had been holding onto washed away and dripped down her face in a deluge of tears. "Oh, my God! NO!" She gasped.

"Ma'am, please: is there somebody I can call?" He took the cell phone that was shoved at him as she was unable to speak. A quick look at the device gave him the number for her husband Julio and he called the man, not telling him of the death of his daughter but insisting that he needed to come home immediately. When he hung up, Graciela was still sobbing uncontrollably so he made a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water and knelt next to her, finally getting her to take a few small sips. Several minutes passed with him gently patting her hand as she slowly began to calm.

There was the sound of a vehicle outside and Julio Montenez burst through the door, worry and anger on his face. Matt stood up and as Julio took him in and saw the badge his face went pale. "Oh, my God. What happened?"

After getting the man to sit on the arm of the chair that Graciela occupied, Matt quietly told him about his daughter. He sat with a vacant expression on his face as his wife's head rested on his chest, his arms automatically going around her.

"We're not certain just yet, but we think that the man in the driver's seat was Anthony Dryer." In the silence of the house, Matt's voice seemed too loud and intrusive.

"How-?" Montenez held out his palms.

"We're still working to figure that out, sir."


	13. Chapter 13

**13**

Greg Montague popped the flashdrive from the property management company into the side of the monitor in Dunkirk's office and the pair watched the footage of a small woman with long dark hair wearing a blue baseball cap, blue jeans, and a gray t-shirt walking up to Tamara Placer's door. She rang the bell and waited, rang it again, and after a slight delay, produced a key and opened the door. The timestamp showed 6:24PM. The young agent reached for the mouse and advanced the footage to 12:24AM when Placer had entered the apartment. At 12.26AM the small woman in jeans emerged and a pistol was just visible in the back of her waistband. Other cameras on the property showed her emerging from the front doors of the building and going south on Colfax.

"Wow. Where did the key come from? And she didn't even try to hide her prints. She waited there for Placer."

"Most likely in the laundry alcove where we found those fingerprints. We were able to get a plate number from the cameras outside the complex. Her name is Rhonda Green, widow of Placer's former cameraman Ellis Green who tried to kill Houston a couple of years back on New Year's Eve. He was shot and killed by Houston. I'm about to go pick her up for questioning."

"Good work. Let me know when you get her here. I'd like to sit in on it."

"Yes sir." The young agent left the office and tagged Ron Brevenski to go with him.

They parked in front of the apartments on Marathon in the Silver Lake area and rode up to the second floor and knocked on the door of 217. Greg instantly recognized the small woman from the video in Placer's apartment building. "Ms. Green? Agent Greg Montague, Bureau of Investigation. We need you to come with us." Both men fully expected her to put up a fight but she merely shrugged, picked up her purse from a small table near the door and after locking the door, quietly went with them as if she had been expecting them.

When they arrived at the bureau offices, the woman was escorted into an interrogation room and the group was joined by Dunkirk. After Brevenski advised her of her rights, Montague played the footage from the apartment complex on a monitor that was in the corner. When it was done, he sat down across from her. "Ms. Green, can you explain to us why you killed Tamara Placer?"

"She took my husband away from me - in more ways than one."

Dunkirk leaned forward. "Could you elaborate on that, please?"

"First she had him out at all hours following Houston, then she seduced him. That's why Ellis went after him on New Year's Eve. He told me earlier that day that we were done." For the first time Rhonda showed some emotion and spoke with a shaky voice. "It was our anniversary."

Montague and Dunkirk exchanged a surprised look, both thinking about the journal that Placer had left behind on the computer. She was obviously infatuated by the private investigator: why would she seduce Green? Quietly the younger agent asked, "Where did you get the key to her apartment?"

"It was in Ellis' belongings after he died. For the longest time I couldn't figure out what it went to - and then it dawned on me to try her place."

"So can you tell us exactly how it happened?"

"I went to her apartment, waited for her, and shot her down like the bitch that she was."

"Where is the gun?"

"I threw it away in the dumpster behind the Burger Nerd on Ventura close to her place."

Dunkirk sat quietly for a minute. "Ma'am, do you realize that you not only killed someone, but you put two other lives in jeopardy by your actions? Mr. Whitaker and Mr. Houston were both suspects before we found that video of you."

"Why in the hell should I care about them? Whitaker is a low-down schemer and Houston killed my husband. I used the scanner that belonged to Ellis to monitor when he would be called in to a scene and tipped her off every chance I got. Every time I heard the cops on the radio say, "They called in the cowboy" and practically celebrating, I tipped her off. It was great seeing her torment him. What part of that do you not get?"

Rhonda refused to comment further after that and was formally charged with the death of the reporter. When she was led out of the building in handcuffs, the crowd of reporters began shouting out questions to her as well as Montague and Brevenski as they escorted her to the waiting car. She never uttered another word.

Matt went to Joshua Fortner's home and found the young man sitting on his front porch - blind drunk and crying. After introducing himself, he was amazed when his suspect held out his wrists.

"I did it. I killed her."

"Sir, I need to read you something." As Matt read the Miranda rights to the young man, he couldn't help but be both surprised and saddened. "Do you understand what I just said?"

"Yeah." Tears and snot ran down Joshua's face. "I was going to turn myself in to you guys. I was just too drunk."

"Maybe you better not say anything else right now." After placing Fortner in cuffs, Matt called in for a patrol car and waited uncomfortably as the young man threw up and continued to cry and talk.

"He was too old for her, man. I just couldn't believe that she would shack up with somebody like that. Before I shipped out on my last tour I told her that I was going to marry her when I got back. And she just…" The next part was gibberish. "I just knew that Uber driver would tell the cops about picking me up. So I was going to save you the trouble. But I'm so drunk they won't pick me up." He broke down once more, then threw up again. All the detective could do was to keep him from falling over as he vomited.

After having Fortner checked into the hospital wing of the jail for possible alcohol poisoning and filling out the report, Houston was heading out to his truck when a voice called out to him. He turned to see Greg Montague coming outside the building just a few steps behind him.

"Mr. Houston, I'm glad to catch up to you."  
"Oh?"

The younger man motioned over his shoulder toward the jail. "I just booked Rhonda Green on the murder of Tamara Placer."

"Rhonda Green?" His mind flashed back to the New Year's Eve attempt on his life at the office and he remembered being hit in the thigh by pellets from the shotgun that Ellis Green was wielding. He also remembered the man grabbing his ankle and tripping him into the hot tub where he was nearly knocked unconscious when he hit his head. Green had jumped in on top of him and Matt had pulled the trigger of his Glock at point blank range, hitting the man in the center of his chest before passing out. If not for the quick action of Michael Hoyt, the PI would have drowned. "Ellis Green's wife?"

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"Just wanted to let you know."

"I appreciate it." He held out his hand and the two shook.

"So what are you doing here?"

"Just booked in a guy on the double murder up at the Backbone Trailhead early this morning."

"Unbelievable. Well, guess I better get going. More paperwork. See you around."

"Thanks."

Driving toward the ranch, Houston thought back over the last couple of days. People watching crime shows on TV really had no idea how stupid most criminals were. If not for that, there was no way he would have been able to solve the two cases in such a short time. It was depressing as hell.

_Three days later…_

Houston and Ben loaded the four horses in the trailers and pulled up to the house to load the rest of the passengers.

"Hey now, y'all settle down back there." Matt shut the back door on the pickup and slid behind the wheel. "Remind me why I thought this was a good idea?" He looked over to CJ who was doing her best to stifle a giggle.

"It seems like you said something about a family road trip. And then there was the line about the kids seeing the country. And of course you said you wanted to spend more time with them. And-"

"No need to be a smarta-"

"Language, hon." She burst into laughter.

Grumbling, he shook his head and then began to smile as they started down the driveway.

From the back a little voice called out, "Daddy, I gotta go to the bathroom!"

"This is going to be a looooong trip." He backed up as CJ continued to laugh.


End file.
